Terence scoffs. “Love? What a concept.”
“Just because you don’t understand…”
Terence cuts her off. “I understand love. It’s what I feel for you, for Edward. It’s not what you feel for Elise. If you truly loved her, you’d want to take nothing more than some examples of her art. Real love isn’t selfish. Real love is about doing what’s best for the object of your affection.”
“That’s shit. Don’t you, of all people, preach to me about love.” Maria casts her eyes downward; she can’t help the sinking, defeated feeling inside: he is right. And yet, she wants Elise so much. “It’s shit, pure and unadulterated.”
“No, it isn’t, and you know it. And you know why.”
This stops Maria, and she lowers her head in shame. “Isn’t it time for you to go somewhere?”
“Don’t avoid the issue, Maria. If you bring Elise over to us and make her one of us, you know what it will do to her.”
“What it will do is make her happy! At one with the person she loves most!” Maria cries.
Terence hisses. “Happy? That’s a good one, coming from you. Shall I call Edward? Ask him about happiness?”
The pain in her head comes back, stabbing. She doesn’t want to hear this. In fact, she wants to claw Terence’s face, make him hurt. “We don’t know that. Just because she’ll have a different perspective as one of us doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The trade would be worth it, Terence. Eternal life.”
“You’re pathetic. How can you say you love her?” Terence turns away, heading for the door. Over his shoulder: “There’s really nothing more to discuss here, Maria. We have to do something about your little artist friend. We do…or I will.”
Maria shivers, a sensation she hasn’t had in a very long time. “She’s coming back to us. Soon.”
“Good!” Terence shouts over his shoulder. “Maybe then we can get what we really should have from her, for our collection, and we can end this nonsense.”
“How can we end it? She knows! She knows!”
Terence waves her words away with his hand. “Goodbye, Maria. Poor thoughtless, love-struck Maria. It’s almost quaint.”
1954
After a spate of gray days, energy-sapping humidity, and showers that seemed too lazy to do anything more than produce a half-hearted mist, New York was alive again. A northeasterly wind had blown over the city, clearing away the depressing weather with a few gusts. It was now one of those perfect autumn days, when the sky was a blue of such brilliant intensity it almost hurt to look at, the color so intense it seemed the birds flying through it would be stained. The few clouds above were of the fluffy, cotton-ball variety, cumulus to inspire the imagination, to make one a child again. Here a dragon, there a reclining nude woman,
a la
Rubens. The temperature was in the upper 60s, hot in the sun and with just a nip when one walked beneath the shadow of a building or tree.
It was the kind of day that inspired people to play hooky. It was the kind of day that made even the most mournful, the most misanthropic, yearn to get outside.
It was the kind of day that perfectly suited Edward’s mood, as he strode across Washington Square, toward home after his meeting at Anima/Animus gallery. Only yesterday, New York had seemed grim, a prison with the only escape route, suicide. Today, Edward recalled why he had come here in the first place. People on the street yesterday had seemed nothing more than shuffling zombies, all of them plagued with various maladies ranging from acne to obesity to shiftiness and beyond; today, they were now unburdened by their problems. The light made everyone beautiful. If he could, Edward would have whistled.
The city was vibrant. Alive.
He sat on a bench in the square. Pigeons immediately rushed over, expecting something. Yesterday Edward would have shooed them away, alarmed at their filth; now he felt disappointed he had nothing to give them.
He lit a cigarette and recalled the meeting.
The staff at Anima/Animus Gallery had been more than hospitable. In fact, they, like Edward right now, had been jubilant when he stumbled into the gallery, sweaty and awkward, lugging his oversized canvases behind him. He felt nothing like an artist, but more like a sour-smelling deliveryman. He toyed with the idea of playing the part and just leaving, coming back when his face wasn’t shiny with sweat, in a shirt that wasn’t stained dark in the armpits. But that shiny face would still be the same, dry or sweat-slick. Now was the time.
Olive Greene was sitting at the reception desk (more of a small glass-topped table, really). Her red hair was pulled once more into a tight French twist and today she wore a form-fitting black dress, patent leather stiletto heels, and sterling silver jewelry.
Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, she called out, “You can just put those against the wall, young man. I’ll see to them in a minute.” She stood up from the desk, dug in the small, square black patent leather clutch on its surface, and crossed the glimmering hardwood, heels clicking. “For your trouble.” She held a dollar bill out to him.
“Uh…I don’t think you understand. I’m…”
“I know who you are, silly boy.”
“Then why the charade?”
Olive Greene put him at ease, somehow made him feel more confident. He snatched the dollar bill from her hand and put it in his pocket before she could close her mouth.
She shook her head, “You artists are all alike. Money-grubbing, even as they deny it with their last, alcohol-perfumed breath.” She cocked her head. “I admire that.”
Edward, grinning, reached in his pocket.
“No, keep it.” Her gaze had moved to the canvases leaning against the wall.
“Is he here?”
“Who? Is that with a capital H? God?”
Edward snorted, ran a hand across his damp forehead. “You know who I mean. Paul Gadzinski.”
“Well, some think of him as God. Especially Mr. Gadzinski himself.”
Edward didn’t need to hear he would be meeting with an egomaniac with an overly inflated view of himself. The fact Mr. Gadzinski thought of himself in divine terms wasn’t funny to Edward; it was intimidating. He didn’t like talking about himself, let alone selling himself, and his conversational and kiss-up skills had been honed to the sharpness of a dull pencil. He tried to smile at Olive, but it probably came out more a teeth-clenched grimace. “So, um, is he here or not?”
Olive, obviously realizing Edward wasn’t going to attempt to join her in mirth, said, “Of course he’s here. You have an appointment.” She sighed and looked at her fingernails, which were lacquered black, something Edward had never seen before. “I can go fetch him. Why don’t you have a seat?” She pointed to a row of chrome seating, with back and seat cushions covered in red suede. He thought of the back of his soaked shirt. “That’s okay. I’ll just stand.”
He watched as Olive walked through the gallery, heels clicking, and disappeared behind a door at the very back, with a frosted glass window that warned, “Private.”
Now
, Edward thought,
now is the time to gracelessly bow out. I can slip out the door and be around the corner before either of them return
. He continued to sweat, but now the perspiration wasn’t from heat or exertion. His mouth was dry. Would he even be able to speak?
Go ahead,
he allowed himself,
go ahead and run. Let the paintings speak for themselves.
If they like what they see, there’s no reason for me to even be here.
The paintings would look no better or worse with his commentary. In fact, his stumbling, inarticulate ramblings could harm more than help.
He was just inching toward the door when Olive’s mannish voice assailed him. “Halt! Stop right there! Where do you think you’re going, mister?”
Edward tried to find some spit to swallow, but came up empty-mouthed. He froze, heat rising to his face. He turned, grinning, and groped for his cigarettes. In a barely audible voice, he said, “Just thought I’d duck out for a smoke while I waited.”
There was a small man standing next to her. Paul Gadzinski was not what Edward expected. He expected someone with a goatee, dressed in beatnik clothes, wearing sunglasses, maybe. The ultimate in hipster cool, a complement to Olive Greene’s sophistication. Instead the man staring at him was unremarkable: slightly overweight with a bald pate ringed in the palest blond hair Edward had ever seen. His flesh was doughy and soft, and the only things that stood out on him physically were a pair of intense blue eyes, so pale they appeared almost translucent. He wore chinos and an Oxford cloth button-down white shirt. Wing tips. He looked like a Hoboken accountant on his day off.
Edward’s tension level receded a bit.
“Go ahead and indulge yourself, Mr. Tanguy. We’ll wait.” His voice was soft, slightly feminine. Edward wasn’t sure if he was being accommodating or acidly sarcastic.
Edward shook his head. “No. It can wait.”
He paused for a moment, struggling to slide the cigarette pack back into his pants pocket. He stared at Gadzinski with frightened eyes and tapped his foot. Then he realized what he should do: he crossed the short distance between them and extended his hand. “Edward Tanguy, sir. I’m honored to meet you.”
Gadzinski placed an extraordinarily soft hand in Edward’s, barely returning the pressure. He removed that same hand and held it up, as if to stop him. “Please, I don’t need the flattery. I need good artists. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Edward was relieved the man felt no need for small talk. He crossed back, went over, and hoisted
Number Six
up.
*
Edward flicked the butt of his cigarette away and watched the pigeons scatter elsewhere in Washington Square, alighting at the feet of an old, purple nylon-scarf-wearing woman who even the pigeons could discern had a soft heart for the ornithological. The meeting he had just left, he supposed, could be called an unqualified success.
When he had put the first painting down in front of Gadzinski, his hands were trembling so much the canvas wobbled. He drew in a great, quivering breath and grasped the wooden edges of the canvas framing tight enough to make his knuckles go bloodless. He kept his head low, in a defeated stance, ready to take the punishment and scorn that was surely on its way. He didn’t dare look at either Gadzinski or Greene. He couldn’t bear to see the distaste in their eyes, or worse, their pity.
He grew even more concerned when no one said anything.
A vein in his forehead began to throb; sweat trickled down his back. Unnerved by their silence, he finally forced himself to look up.
Olive Greene was smirking. But that wasn’t so much of a worry; a smirk seemed to be the woman’s preferred expression. And besides, her opinion didn’t have the importance of Gadzinski’s.
Gadzinski, however, looked transfixed, staring at the canvas, lips parted and eyes moving over its surface. Edward didn’t have the confidence to interpret this as a good sign. In fact, he read the intense look on the gallery owner’s face as shock. He had to be appalled Edward had summoned up the nerve to bring this crap into a gallery with an international reputation. Edward closed his eyes, trying to get some spit past the huge ball that had formed in his throat. He bit his lip until he tasted blood. The coppery trickle energized him and gave him the courage to speak. “You don’t like it, do you? I’m sorry…”
He forced himself to make eye contact with Gadzinski; better to just get it over with. Then he could go home and reconsider his artistic ambitions.
Gadzinski shook his head. “I think it’s brilliant. I think you have the talent, Mr. Tanguy, enough to wield major influence and take abstract expressionism to a new level.”
As the praise started tumbling out of Gadzinski’s mouth, blood rushed in Edward’s ears, making it hard for him to hear. His face flushed. Surely, Gadzinski was teasing him; could the man be so cruel? Was he supposed to laugh and then gracefully accept the criticism that would follow this little act?
“I’d be honored—” Gadzinski stopped. “Mr. Tanguy, look at me please.”
Edward lifted his head, blinking and stared into the blue of the man’s eyes, waiting.
Sometimes good news could be as stressful as bad.
“I’d be honored to show your work. In fact, I’m revising my original plan—which was to have you show with several other artists—and am thinking of a solo exhibition. I think we need that, with all the requisite hoopla, as soon as possible.” He turned to his assistant and cocked his head. “Olive, check and see what we have available in the next couple of weeks. If there’s something
less
exciting than Mr. Tanguy’s work here,” Gadzinski rolled his eyes. “Which would include most of the work we plan on showing soon, bump it back to a later time.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with.” Olive winked at Edward, smiled, and returned to her desk.
Gadzinski said, “I assume you can be ready? Yes? You have more at home like these?”
Edward whispered, “Yes. Are you sure?”
“Oh, how I dread the day when your innocence and modesty dries up, which, I suspect, will be shortly.” Gadzinski smiled. “Leave the two paintings here and go home and get together eight more pieces of your best work. Olive can take care of having them transported over here. She’ll also be in touch about when…but it will be soon.”
“Okay.” Edward wished he had something clever to say, or at least something to say. He turned, dazed and dizzy, and wandered toward the front of the space, needing the fresh air of the crisp autumn day outside, needing to foul it with a lungful of cigarette smoke. He was too shocked to be happy, too stunned to even say goodbye to Olive Greene.
*
Edward sat back on the bench and closed his eyes. It had happened more easily than he could have imagined. He was on his way.
2004
Elise stands at their front door, wondering why she has come. She casts her eyes down; the wind off the lake at her back is cold. She shivers, thinks about turning around, and walking to the corner to wait for a bus to take her back.
Take her back to what? A life of selling herself on the street? Depressed days in a little box with peeling paint, mouse turds, and cockroaches? To making herself one with the inevitable, never mind that she has an intellect and can draw dark, warped pictures? Who cares about that? No, she’ll fall into the trap like all the rest: first it will be the hard drugs to escape (not stuff like marijuana, but crystal meth, cocaine, heroin, all easy to get in her little corner of the world), and then will come the health problems, the chlamydia unchecked, ruining what’s inside and what’s female. She will come to the point where HIV will make a nest for itself in her bloodstream. And with little money, little will to live, and contempt for doctors, she will not be one of the ones she’s read about, who find a miracle drug cocktail and go on living, only slightly inconvenienced. No, she’ll be like one of the gay boys in the 1980s, who wound up gasping for breath, reduced to skeletal wraiths covered in Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. She could see it all before her.
Suddenly, returning to the bus stop didn’t have quite the allure or the feel of common sense Elise thought it should. Why did it always seem, in the end, there was really no free will and that choice was just an illusion?
Freedom,
she thought, recalling Janis Joplin,
is just another word for nothin’ left to lose.
Still, she had promised herself she wouldn’t come back here, wouldn’t answer the siren call of a beautiful woman whose skin reminded her of milk and roses, and her hair of silk. She promised herself that life, in whatever form and no matter how bad, was preferable to the unending sorrow and isolation these creatures seemed to promise. What’s happened to her will, so defiant it caused her to cast away everything for the sake of art? How has she come to bend so easily to a pretty face, a graceful form, the promise of love?
She swallows and raises her hand to knock. Drops it back down.
It isn’t just the promise of love. It’s the reality of it. The pull of Maria has her in its grasp and it isn’t letting go.
Surrender, Dorothy
.
The door, painted black, is alive—moving imperceptibly, breathing, waiting; the watchful eye of a cat just before it pounces.
Behind her the sky is a mass of darkening purple clouds, as dusk winds down into night.
They’re inside now, willing me to come in
. Elise can see them, coming down the stairs, dressed for the evening, their eyes locked on the front door, knowing she is out there, knowing she is tormented. Elise doesn’t shiver in terror at the thought of them. She knows they won’t hurt her, that she is beyond the reach of their flesh-shredding fangs, their hungry, sucking mouths. For some reason—maybe her art—maybe simply because Maria likes the feel of her and the taste of her skin, she has been elevated to a place of safety and protection.
But they will hurt someone tonight. That’s the reality. There is someone out there, a stranger, who will get hurt, who will have his or her blood sacrificed to feed them. Perhaps the twelve-year-old black boy she has seen on Greenview, the skinny one in baggy pants and a hooded oversized sweatshirt, who relentlessly rides a kid’s bike, far too small for him, up and down the street, stopping only to ask what time it is, or when a stranger calls down from a window. He’s making a living, just like Elise. He’s all alone, just like she is. He wouldn’t be missed, except maybe for a moment, by those who depend on him for their daily fix of whatever potion he sells. It’s no wonder he keeps the hood of his sweatshirt up at all times, cauling his face, hiding it in shadow. Or perhaps they will take Betty, the old streetwalker Elise has spoken to on occasion. Overweight, well past forty, with missing teeth and too-dry dyed red hair, she is no longer a hot commodity and has trouble even finding someone to heed her bargain rate of five bucks for a blow job in an alley behind the liquor store. She certainly wouldn’t be missed. Nor would the man on the corner, a young guy, too robust and handsome to be begging, but who daily stands there exhorting strangers to give him a quarter, a dollar, so he can get back to the south side on the el. No one—not even anyone on the south side—would be looking for him.
But whether they’re missed or not isn’t the point. They’re alive. They have every right to go on living, and these people inside have no right to take it away.
She turns, looks longingly at the ebb and flow of the traffic rushing by on Sheridan Road. She’s frozen. The rational part of her—the part that tells her the people inside this house are insane, homicidal, or worse, what they say they are—prods her to flee. But that part isn’t strong enough to inspire her to move more than this half turn that places her back to the door. She has no choice. Logic tells her to stay away; the danger is real. But her emotions, an artist’s curse and blessing, cause her to place her hand on the doorknob and turn. Somewhere she has read that the artistic temperament is not a temperament at all, but just another form of insanity, a way to escape the real world and hide behind the imaginary, creating an alternate existence that could never satisfy, and that as they get older, artists just become more and more insane.
Even as she’s thinking this, she’s wondering about the forbidden fruit for which she longs so irrationally.
Fuck it.
She pushes the door open, hungry for the fruit, all the more tempting because it is forbidden…and starving for something as simple as the feel of a lover’s arms. She slips inside, a whisper, shutting the heavy door behind her. The door closes almost of its own accord, the heavy oak swinging back silently, as if the house itself is unbalanced, so that gravity pulls the doors shut (like a trap after the prey has entered). Her heart pounds; her stomach is in knots. These responses are not because she’s afraid, but because she now has the prospect of Maria close at hand.
She can’t wait to see her.
Inside the foyer, it is quiet. Elise moves silently across the marble tiled floor, heading for the gallery. Her hands tremble and blood rushes in her ears. Funny, how it all comes down to blood rushing.
She pauses outside the tall archway opening into the gallery, standing breathlessly outside the arch, back to the wall.
Go inside
, she tells herself, forcing one foot in front of the other. She closes her eyes, gingerly feeling her way, not sure what she’s afraid of seeing.
She stops. She opens her eyes.
A hundred, no a thousand, candles glimmer, casting flickering illumination on the sculptures, paintings, and drawings. The shadows and warm yellow light bring the pieces alive. The paintings shimmer, and the sculptures moves: a gesture, a leap, a twirl caught in periphery. Elise is still in the light, her senses for a moment quiet, absorbing.
This quiet doesn’t last long. There, in a corner, warmed by the light of the flames, is Maria. She wears a flowing dress of white lace, no shoes. Her hair is brushed away from her face and her dark eyes drink in the light. Elise could fall into their darkness. The connection between their gazes is electric, the culmination of days of psychic connection. Now, Elise understands why she was so helpless to leave, why the thought of turning away from the door just moments ago was something that just couldn’t happen.
They don’t speak. Who has need for words? The communication between them is so complete that it makes the words look like crude tools, inelegant and in a different league from this silent connection they share. It’s pure emotion, pure understanding, with no need for definition.
The walk across the candlelit space seems distorted, longer than it actually is. Desire and anticipation makes their course toward each other something seen through a tunnel, a weird lens, elongating distance.
Finally, they are in front of one another, close enough to touch, and each pauses to drink in the smell of the other. There is caution; Elise supposes neither of them want to spoil the moment’s perfection, or make a false move. Almost imperceptibly, they raise their hands, stretching.
Finally, they embrace. Elise fears her heart will explode; the adrenaline has the force of a shot of coke, or crank. Maria’s proximity causes her breath to quicken. She no longer cares about the iciness of Maria’s touch; she wants to devour her. Her mouth finds the silk of Maria’s body, sinking her tongue into yielding flesh.
Their bodies intertwine, nearly become one. They sink to the floor and hold each other, attuned to their breathing which soon takes up the same rhythm and pace.
“I knew you would come,” Maria whispers, kissing Elise’s ear.
Elise feels hot liquid at her eyes but doesn’t want to analyze what’s causing the tears. “I knew I would, too.” Whether the inevitability was a good or bad thing was something she would save for later analysis.
“Yes.” Maria draws a small pipe from between her breasts. “I’ve been saving this for us, for when we could be together again.” She hands it, along with a silver lighter, to Elise.
Elise wants to giggle, but reins it in, afraid of spoiling the moment. Yet she eyes the resinous bud in the bowl of the pipe warily; she can’t imagine being in a realm higher than she is now, and wonders if partaking will send her over some edge beyond her imagining.
Maria grabs her hand and guides the pipe to her lips. “Just a little. It will make things perfect. Trust me.”
Maria’s dark eyes boring into her own make Elise weak and powerless. Shutting out the thought of where such trust has gotten her so far, she puts the stem to her mouth, lights the bud, and draws in deeply. She imagines the thick, blue-gray smoke inside her, expanding, rolling like a fog through her lungs, tainting and thrilling each of the millions of alveoli clustered there. The smoke smells sweet, with a piquant undertone that makes her think of the incense the priests used to perfume the air at mass when she was a girl. The religious association is not lost on her. She closes her eyes, exhaling slowly, handing the pipe back. Maria’s fingers brush hers as she takes the pipe and even this tiny touch is electric.
When the marijuana overcomes, Elise feels once more the reality of everything around her melting until into the simple presence of Maria. It is as though the herb has freed her to concentrate on only one thing, and Maria is a huge looming presence, giant, all-encompassing. Elise lies back and pulls Maria on top of her; the weight is light, almost as if she is pulling a comforter over herself. She doesn’t remember them removing their clothes, yet now their bare skins merge, each part sensitive and hungry for more touch, an addict after the ultimate fix. The slippery touch of Maria’s lips moving down her body, lingering at her nipples, biting gently, enough to break the skin, but not draw much blood, and finally kissing downward, filling her navel with moisture and then moving further, slowly, slowly, until Elise can hardly bear the anticipation.
Maria nestles herself between Elise’s legs, the dark silk of her hair brushing her thighs, her tongue speaking an ancient and entirely new language, one much more eloquent than words. Elise arches her back and moans and loses track of her own existence. More than bodies come together: their intellects, their souls merge, unite. It is as though this communion of flesh, sensation, and mind is a rite that makes their union permanent.
This is not a sex act; it’s a marriage.
After, they are exhausted, panting and sweating in a mass of clothes on the floor, lying in each other’s arms. It takes forever for Elise’s heartbeat to return to normal, for her face to cool, for her to become aware of her surroundings once more.
Maria runs her fingers lightly across Elise’s rib cage, then gets up on one elbow to peer down. “Thank you for coming back. I wasn’t sure you would.” She shakes her head. “In fact, I was pretty certain you would not. And that made me think of leaving here. I didn’t know if I could bear the proximity. But you returned.”
“I don’t know that I ever had a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” Maria brushes some of Elise’s hair away from her face. She pauses for a while, staring off into the darkness, the dying embers in the fireplace.
“What are you thinking about?” Elise takes Maria’s chin and turns her face toward her. “I can tell…something.”
Maria smiles.
Elise notices the smile is tentative, and it’s the first time Elise has ever seen the woman lose her confidence and poise, even in this small way. She can tell she’s actually nervous about what she wants to say. “What is it, Maria? What do you want?”
“I think you know what I want.”
Elise’s heart thuds. She nods.
Maria sits up straighter, her lips tighten. She forces herself to look Elise in the eye. “I want you to be with me. To be one of us.”
Elise turns away. It’s too soon. She hardly knows this woman, and yet feels she knows her better than anyone she’s ever encountered in her life. And what she knows of Maria is also a paradox: terrifying and tempting at the same time. She wants to be careful what she says in return.
“I don’t know, Maria. I don’t know if I can.” She gives a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m not even sure I believe in you, in what you are. How can I become something that maybe is imagination, fantasy, the byproduct of an unbalanced mind?”
“You know everything you need to know. I know you believe me when I say we have communicated in a way that transcends human language. You know me instinctively. And, because you’re open to that knowledge, because you can actually absorb it, you
can
be one of us.” Maria touches Elise’s face. “You can. The question really is: will you? Can you give me that gift? I promise to give you just as much in return. More.”
As Elise’s head clears, she has the urge to flee once more. This is insane. “So you want me to be one of you? So, so what? So we’ll always be together?”
“Always.”
“And it would mean becoming one of you? How would that happen?”