Breath and Bones (59 page)

“Because that painting sold again.” Famke pulled away from him and began to fray the sheet. She itched fiercely all over. “To a man here in California—his name is Edouard Versailles. I went to see him because I thought I could find a clue there . . . It is where I lived the past five months.”

Now the fate of
Nimue
hardly registered to Albert; he was caught by another name. “You know Edouard Versailles?” he asked excitedly.

The ladies of San Francisco are noted for the excessively scant style of their costumes
.

S
AMUEL
P
HILLIPS
D
AY
,
L
IFE AND
S
OCIETY IN
A
MERICA

The next morning, while Albert went out to buy her a new dress and shoes, Famke washed the last bit of paint off herself. She let her skin dry in the air while she emptied the meager contents of his clothes press into a carpetbag.

The two of them were going to Hygiene. Hygeia Springs. Albert wanted it badly, and why had she chased him across the globe if not to follow his wishes and further his dreams?

“He is as rich as Croesus—that's a very rich man—and has hundreds of blank walls to cover. If you could introduce me . . .” Remembering her old gesture, he had framed her face in his hands and kissed her on the nose; after that she could refuse him nothing, even though she was uncomfortably sure both that Edouard would sneer at Albert's paintings and that he would be cold to her. She could no more tell Albert these things than she could slap him. And in any event, Albert said he'd kept a few pieces from the winter's work, and that he had returned to his earlier more painstaking methods: Perhaps there would be something there to appeal to Edouard Versailles and ensure a welcome for both Famke and Albert.

With a faint glimmer of hope, she hunted around the bare little room until she found a stack of pictures under the bed. She pulled them out into the gaslight, and her heart sank. One oil depicted a heap of sardines; the other showed the same sardines neatly stacked in a basket held by a grim Chinaman. There were two sketches of boats on the Bay and one of a corner
of Albert's room. What had become of Nimue, or even of the regimented Muses? These were the dullest pictures Famke had known him ever to make, and not one of them featured even a hint of her. Looking at them, she got the sensation that a heavy stone was settling somewhere in her belly. But after a moment's contemplation, she packed the pictures up in a slender portfolio. Albert must have samples to display, if he were to present himself as a professional artist. And she must do her part; she would have to make a good introduction, give Albert every slim chance of succeeding. Again, why else had she chased him around half the world?

“This is Albert Castle,” she practiced out loud. “My brother, the painter, who grew up with a family in England.” She had told that lie so many times that it should feel natural to her by now, and yet she was certain that Edouard would detect a stiffness and artificiality in her voice.
This is the painter of dead fish
. Still, she had to keep the story alive; she could hardly expect Edouard to believe her innocent of involvement with the Dynamite Gang—for Albert had promised to clear her of all suspicion—if she were confessing to other lies. Running the town as he did, he might clap her in a hoosegow for his suspicions, and then what would become of her, and of Albert?

Once the portfolio was packed and set on the bed with the carpetbag, everything was done. The day was foggy and Famke realized she was chilled, so she draped a sheet around herself; her torn chemise was good for nothing but the ashcan. She wondered what color the dress Albert would buy might be and wished that it could be blue or green. Blue or green silk.

That wish made her think somewhat wistfully of Heber and his plans to put the future of the Mormons in threads—but no, she would not think of him now, or of Sariah or Myrtice or Sister Birgit, or anyone but herself and Albert.
Their
future was about to begin, and the only piece of the past that interested her now was hanging in a Greek pawnshop.

While the traffic roiled and smoked beneath her, Famke stood in the window, watching for Albert and daydreaming about the new paintings for which she might pose. Certainly there would be no more sardines; she would make sure of it. Once again they would take up mythological subjects: mermaids, perhaps, if Albert wanted to continue painting scales and fishtails . . . Or then again, when she was working for Charles Martin du Garde, she had thought of a tableau that would mingle Mormon, Catholic,
and classical mythologies in a way that would certainly be novel and striking. In her mind's picture, a young woman awakened on a bed of clouds to find three creatures before her: an old man, a young man, and a bird that might be either dove or California seagull. The woman, like Paris, was to choose among three deities—for a husband. Whichever she selected, she would be God's wife, and a flock of ghostly women in warrior helmets waited to dress her for the wedding in a glimmering frock woven of diamonds and pearls. Of course, the waking woman was completely nude, except where the clouds twined lovingly between her legs. Famke thought she might call this
The First Bride
. Professor du Garde had refused to mount the tableau, fearing that the police would shut down the Thalia if he presented a scene that was not already to be found somewhere out in the world; but perhaps if she described it in the right detail, Albert would paint it. It had so many of the elements he liked.

Albert. Famke realized she had slid her fingers Down There, where friction had left a red rash; and she withdrew them with a feeling of impatience. It was nearly ten o'clock—what was taking him so long? Was he dawdling, when their whole future and a thousand paintings were waiting to be born? Still thinking of
The First Bride
, she lay down on the cot and essayed a few poses, trying to imagine which would please Albert best, and which would show most compellingly under his brush. Her breasts must show to advantage, and her nose, and the hair on her head. But there could be no emphasis on that other thatch. Which,
Fanden
, was becoming most uncomfortable as the shaved hairs pushed inexorably against the chafed skin, trying to grow. It was all but impossible to lie still.

Suddenly she felt she could not wait a moment longer: She would begin the picture herself. She got up, opened Albert's bag again, and found a sketchpad and a pencil. With careful, faint lines, she began to sketch out her idea. She drew the woman, the clouds, and the bird, leaving the men and the crowd of Valkyries till later. Albert could certainly fill those in; it was most important to her to get the central figure right. Famke sketched her with long limbs and a bow-shaped mouth, open as if to speak.

Famke stopped and studied this woman with a critical eye. She looked perhaps too much like a modern girl, a splendid American-Bohemian who would just as soon gulp down a whiskey or swear—loudly. Famke thought this over, then began sketching an antique fullness in the waist and body.
Meanwhile, she began to consider new titles:
The Bride Awakens to Judgment. The Judgment of Eve. Choosing a Master
. Somehow none of these seemed right.

When the doorknob rattled, Famke ripped out her sketch—
The Bride's Prelude?
—and folded it into her fist. She had learned from
Hygeia
: She would not show her work until it was perfect, and there was still much to do.

“Darling!” Albert did not notice her movement, but he appeared most excited to see her. “I brought you a frock—though I'd much rather keep you as you are, in that fetching drapery.” As Famke took the parcel from him and went to work on the string, he added, “You should have seen how the clerk stared when I chose women's clothing.”

The dress was of coarse cotton and a little too large, but Albert had remembered gloves and stockings and a hat. Famke put them all on and decided she looked good enough, given how she had left Hygiene. At least, she thought, the clothes were blue, even if it was a washed-out color that did not suit her complexion at all. She was in fact surprised he had chosen something so pallid; perhaps he thought it respectable.

“Very fine,” Albert said when she showed him.

“I hope you did not spend too much on all of it.” She tugged at the waist in an attempt to make it stay up.

“Not too much. And I was happy to do it.”

“Then—” She hesitated, unsure how to tell him what she felt he would want to know. “I hope you might give me six dollars more.” She explained about the Greek store and what she had to redeem there.

Albert shuddered. “Really, darling, a pawnshop—how sordid.” Then the rest of her speech sank in and he asked, “But you say this is the original
Nimue
? Are you certain?”

“Quite certain,” Famke said, taking pleasure in his excitement. He need never know that she was the artist who had applied the last layer of paint; and if he did not like her version of herself, he could always strip it away, along with the layer that was the captain's mistress. She would not mind. She would be glad to see the real Nimue, the real Famke, again.

They took a carriage to Acropolis Pawn—but found
Hygeia
no longer on view. The Greek told them it had sold that very morning.

“There's a living waxwork just like it at the theater down the street,
miss,” he said, sharpening his moustache; he was much more deferential to Famke now that Albert stood beside her. “I could not keep that painting to myself. Without a frame, even, I sold it for thirty-seven dollars, and the gentleman which bought it had a bargain. But I see you are really fond of this painting,” he said craftily. “If you like, I can get you one just the same. Painted all new. One just like that waxwork.”

“No,” said Famke. She was too disappointed to argue or ask more questions. “It would
not
be the same.”

“Don't fret, darling.” Albert twined her fingers in his. “I can make a new Nimue, one who looks as she should—like you. Just one commission from Versailles, or two, will set me up with supplies for a year. Let's go to Hygiene now and defend your innocence.”

Famke followed him out to the carriage, climbed up onto the high seat, and leaned against the slender portfolio case. If only she were not so tired; if only Albert had allowed her to sleep a little last night, rather than repeatedly demonstrating his joy in finding her again. She stifled a yawn that came out as a mewling sound.

Albert put his hand in his pocket, reaching for a cheroot and a lucifer, then he broke out in a bright smile that showed all his nearly-white teeth. “Here's something to cheer your spirits,” he said as the wheels spun their way toward the harbor. He pulled out a silver object, so shiny that at first all Famke saw was a flash of light on Albert's palm. “I'd nearly forgotten—it's the twin to our old tinderbox,” he said. “See, the Three Graces—just as we found them in the ruins. I bought this one in Boulder, Colorado. We may not have Nimue back, but we have it.”

The light spanked off a backward Grace's bottom. Famke said, with a sense of wonder wakened again, “It is the
same
box.”

Albert did not seem to find much of the extraordinary in this coincidence, did not even question how such a thing could be. “You see,” he said, “in the end everything is exactly where it belongs.”

There was much more that Famke could have told him, but she decided it was hardly worth the effort now. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said merely, and looked out the window for a last glimpse of the city.

If a man cannot stay at home, traveling in a Pullman palace car is the most like staying there of anything in the world
.

B
ENJ
. F. T
AYLOR
,
B
ETWEEN THE
G
ATES

A California train is a human museum
.
B
ENJ
. F. T
AYLOR
,
B
ETWEEN THE
G
ATES

Edouard was unaware that he was soon to have visitors; and if he had known, he would have declared himself uninterested. He wanted only to walk through his own front door, to let the invisible servants take his hat and coat and luggage, give him a warm drink, and leave him in peace. He was worn out with cities and with art. He longed for his quiet office with its specimen jars and anatomical drawings, and for the deep peace of the Taj Mahal. But instead here he was, trapped in one corner of a Southern Pacific palace car with the Mormon widow Myrtice Goodhouse Black and the man she had introduced as Mr. Viggo, Ursula's brother.

Edouard had naturally been suspicious when these two presented themselves to him. For weeks he had been convinced that his patient had made up her brother from whole cloth; and yet it was impossible now to believe that this open-faced, gentle-mannered Dane was anything else—for he was too polite to be a member of the Dynamite Gang, too uncomplicated to paint better than second-rate art. Pangs of remorse beset Edouard again as he remembered his suspicions. Thus when Mr. Viggo and Mrs. Black explained their errand, Edouard had felt honor bound to buy them tickets to Hygeia Springs so they could collect Ophelia's—no, Ursula Summerfield's—few belongings; though really, he thought now, it had been Ursula who took advantage of him, living in his house all those months and profiting from his waters and electricity. Edouard felt very much as if someone owed him a favor. Yet it was he who had responded to the Wanted poster, he who had started the machinery of quest and fulfillment in
motion, and now he must see it through. He would let Ursula's brother and former employer come to Hygeia to collect the contents of her pocket and see what they, who felt they knew her much better than he did, might make of the assorted dingy scraps.