The House of Dreams (36 page)

*   *   *

The last time I'd seen it was when Quimby returned to the Château d'Oc at the end of October to collect the paintings. I don't think I've ever hated anyone more than Alistair Quimby, I tell you. I stayed out of his way, as much as I could. That is, when he hadn't got me dressing up as Gabriel Lambert to sweet-talk some old fool of an art collector into handing over more than they should have for one of the paintings.

“Shouldn't these be signed ‘studio of'?” I said to him as we loaded the last of the canvases into the back of his old gray Citroën van. I tucked a blanket around the end of Vita's painting as if I were swaddling a child.

“Nonsense, dear boy,” he said, tightening the straps around the blankets so the paintings stayed upright as he drove. Quimby slammed the door shut. “Think of Gainsborough, Rubens, do you really think any of the great prolific artists really painted all their own work?”

“It's forgery.”

“No, it's not.”

“Well, I bet Gainsborough never had his son impersonate him.”

“Hush, dear boy,” Quimby said, patting my hand. He stepped a little closer. “Don't pout. You know, you should have some fun. All work and no play—”

“Quimby.” Lambert's voice was harsh. Quimby stepped away and slid a pair of round rose-colored sunglasses down from his hair.

“I was just thanking young Gabriel for all his work.”

“Hadn't you better get a move on? It will be dark before you reach Marseille.”

“Yes, yes.” He shook Lambert's hand. “I'll send for Gabriel once I've secured buyers.”

“This will be the last time, won't it?” I said.

“I said so, didn't I? I heard Peggy Guggenheim is buying anything she can get her hands on for a good price.”

“She's never bought any of my work,” Lambert said.

“There's always a first time.” Quimby turned to me. “You've done a good job. No doubt now you want to get back to your own work?” I caught the smirk on his face and thought uncomfortably of how Quimby had surprised me in Vita's studio the night before, how the flash of his camera had cut through the darkness of the cellar. Vita was sitting on the stool beside her easel, watching me paint one of the abstracts I was working on. They were never Vita's paintings. They were mine. Lambert pushed past Quimby as he took the photograph, lurched toward my work. His ghastly face, twisted with laughter, reflected in the mirror side by side with my own. Click, the camera went. I remember the pop of the flash, the smell of it. Even to this day, the memory of their laughter, their ridicule, makes the bile rise in my throat. That's what I saw in the photograph Sophie showed me—not Vita, not the paintings, but the truth about us, about Gabriel Lambert. The two of us, side by side. Past and future. Both of us. And the girl knows, I'm sure of it.

*   *   *

I found Vita curled up asleep in the armchair in her studio that evening. I didn't want to wake her and began to step away.

“Lambert?” she mumbled sleepily. “Is that you?”

“No, it's me.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “It's getting harder to tell you two apart. Even your footsteps sound the same now. Or at least, they sound how his used to. If you know what I mean.”

“Have you been working?”

Vita laughed. “Trying to. It's hopeless. I've come to the conclusion my destiny is to be a muse rather than an artist in my own right.” She gestured languidly at a pile of torn sketches littering the floor. “Lambert says I have failed to progress, and he's right, damn him. Perhaps I shall return to the stage.…”

“I thought you might like to go down to the village, for a drink?” I said quickly, before I lost my nerve. She looked so beautiful, curled up on the chair. I longed to kiss her again. It was like some kind of divine joke that I had spent my days, weeks, forced to look but not touch, to study every inch of her in detail under the watchful eye of my father. I could draw her still, if I wanted, in absolute perfection.

“No, I don't think so,” she said. She stretched as she stood and looked into my eyes, blinking once, twice, like a cat. “That's not a good idea.”

“It's just a drink.”

“We both know you are asking me for more than a drink.”

“Vita,” I said, desperately reaching for her. Before I knew what was happening, my arm was around her waist, my mouth searching for hers.

“Gabriel, stop it. Stop it!”

I backed away, my heart thumping. “I'm sorry. Please forgive me, I … I've never felt like this about anyone before.” Frustration balled in my chest, I could hardly breathe. “It's just being near you, all the time—I can't, I can't bear it.”

She pulled her embroidered shawl around her shoulders and crossed her arms. “You dear, sweet boy.”

“I'm not a boy—” I said, my voice breaking.

“Shh! Lambert will hear you.” She stepped closer and kissed me on the cheek. “Gabriel, I'm very flattered, and it's understandable that you feel confused, after what happened at the party, but the thing is, I love Lambert. He's a grade-one shit in many ways, but I love him, and I can't leave him, not when he is so ill.” She took my arm. “I don't know how long he has left, but I want to be there.”

“I understand.” I didn't, of course. I was eighteen and randy as hell. I couldn't for the life of me see how a woman like Vita could choose Lambert over me.

“I'm not feeling so great myself,” she said. I noticed for the first time the dark circles under her eyes.

“You don't think…?”

“No, of course not. It's just some bug or rotten food, or something.” She shook her head and sighed. “Of course it's not syphilis. Lambert and I have always been careful. We've never been lovers, you do know that?”

“No?”

“He was already ill, when we met.” She glanced at me as we started to climb the cellar steps. “His wife, Rachel, infected him.” She pursed her lips. “She must have been a piece of work, spoiled bitch. Imagine being unfaithful to a man like Lambert? No wonder she killed herself when she found out what she had done.”

“She did?”

Vita nodded. “Lambert was in pieces when I met him. She'd just died, and he couldn't work. He knew what was coming, too, how ill he was going to become.”

“And then you came along.”

“Then I came along.” She smiled sadly. “I asked him to marry me, you know, but he won't. He says he doesn't want me to be tied to a monster.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, and meant it. Now I knew why she was so unhappy.

“Your father was … is a remarkable man. Never forget that.”

“But isn't it difficult, for a woman like you, I mean?” My chest was tight with jealousy. “What do you get out of this? Don't you ever—”

“Need someone? It was part of our agreement, that every so often I could have a little ‘adventure' if I felt I needed it.”

“He knew?”

“Of course he does. I'd never go behind his back.” She squeezed my hand as she turned to go upstairs to bed. “He knew where I was that night, but not who I was with.” She looked into my eyes. “You turned out to be more of an adventure than most, Gabriel. Lambert must never know about us. It would break his heart.”

*   *   *

I've never been a good sleeper. Overactive imagination, that's what Annie always says, but I've never slept worse than I did in my father's house. I remember lying in bed one night in October, thrashing around like a sprat in the bottom of a bait bucket trying to get comfortable.

I couldn't stand it anymore, thought perhaps I'd be better after some fresh air, so I pulled back the blankets and struggled into my clothes. I leaned against the wall of the staircase as I stumbled downstairs. The fire in the hall cast long shadows, steps zigzagging up the curving wall like teeth. I was heading for the kitchen, but then I heard Vita and Lambert arguing down in the cellar.

I know, I know. I should have gone on, ignored them, but I could hear her crying, and I was worried he was drunk and might hurt her. None of it would have happened if I had just gone on walking out into the night and caught my breath under the cold sky of a thousand stars. But I padded downstairs.

“Whose is it?” he was yelling.

“I don't know.” Vita was sobbing now.

“Tell me.” I heard Lambert throw something across the room, the mirror above her desk shattering. “This was never part of the deal, Vita. I don't want to be a father. Children suck the bloody life out of you, and leave you a husk. I can't paint around a screaming infant.…”

“You can't paint anyway!”

“Go to hell, Vita.”

“You don't have to do anything,” she said. “You'll never see it.”

“You have no idea! The noise, the squalor. You'll get fat and…”

“And what, Lambert? Hideous to look at?”

“That's not fair.”

“Do you think I love you less, for what you are?”

“I just want one part of my life to remain perfect. One part. Is that too much to ask?”

“I'm not a sculpture, or a painting. I'm real, and I'm alive, and I just want a child so that when…”

“When I die? Is that it?”

“I don't want to be alone, Lambert. It would be like having a part of…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The silence pushed me back against the wall of the cellar stairs.

“Oh, Christ, no … Him?” Lambert said. “Not him.”

“Lambert…”

“In my own house, with my son, how could you?”

“It's not what you think!”

“I'll kill him!”

“Lambert, no, please—” I heard the sound of his hand hitting her, the thud of Vita hitting the floor.

“Leave her alone!” I yelled, my hand clutching at the wall.

Lambert knelt at her side. “Vita … Vita…” He cradled her head. Blood was already trickling from her ear.

“What have you done?” I cried.

“She fell, hit her head on the table.” I glanced across. As she had fallen, a candle had knocked over. Flames were beginning to lick the red velvet drapes behind her easel. As usual, the place was littered with cloths smeared with oil paint and meths. An arsonist couldn't have done a better job. I winced, the smell of smoke filling my nose.

“Lambert, you have to get—”

“You, you little bastard,” he said, struggling to his feet. “After all I've done for you.”

“It wasn't like that—I didn't know,” I said. “Vita didn't—”

“You thankless, heartless piece of shit.” He shoved me hard, back against the door frame. I felt the metal rod Vita had propped the door open with fall away as I stumbled. I looked beyond my father, to where the flames were leaping up the drapes. Vita lay on the floor, her pale arm extended toward me. I felt like I was about to pass out.

“Lambert, you must—” He thumped me then, and I fell back onto the stairs. I saw him reaching for the door.

“Go to hell.”

“Lambert!” I shook my head, the blood shrill in my ears from the blow. I jumped up as he went to slam the door, grabbing the handle on this side. The handle that I had said I'd fix but hadn't. I pushed against the door with all my strength, keeping it open.

“Get out of here,” he said. “I swear to God, I'll kill you if I see you again.”

I felt my feet slipping, skidding on the stone floor as he pushed against me. My arms were shaking as I clung on. “The fire,” I gasped.

“Get out!” With a final shove, the door slammed shut, and I fell backward.

For a moment there was silence. I imagine he must have turned and seen the fire rising, licking the ceiling. I heard him cry out, then the handle rattled.

“Fire!” He thumped on the door. “Fire! For God's sake, the fire! Get us out … get us out of here!” I tried the door. The lock was jammed fast.

“I can't … I can't open…” Bright lights danced before my eyes.

“Oh God, oh God,” I heard him cry out. Smoke snuck beneath the door. I threw myself against the heavy wood again and again, but the door wouldn't budge. “Help us!” he cried, coughing and choking on the smoke. I pulled open the tiny metal grille in the dungeon door and looked in, terrified by what I might see. His eye appeared there, briefly, blocking the light of the wall of flame, and then his fingers snaked through the grille. I reached up and touched him, repelled and afraid.

“I'll go and get help,” I said, but we both knew it was hopeless. There was no fire brigade here, no way to pump water down, no locksmith who could cut them free in time.

That image has stayed with me my whole life, his fingers touching mine—again, I think it was the only time we touched. Like God giving life to Adam in the Sistine Chapel. The deaths of Vita, of our child, of my father, marked the end and the beginning of my life. I've asked myself if I could have saved them somehow, whether Vita knew or if she was already dead. For sixty years I have blamed myself. If only I had fixed the damn door. It's the smallest things blindside us and change our lives forever.

“Go,” my father said. He took away his hand and stepped back to meet his fate. I peered through the grille, saw him take Vita in his arms, cradling her. “Go!”

 

FORTY-SEVEN

F
LYING
P
OINT
, L
ONG
I
SLAND

2000

G
ABRIEL

I lie back on the sand beside the girl. “If only…”

“What happened next, Gabriel?” Her voice seems far away.

“I don't … I don't know. I must have collapsed, outside the château somewhere. The next thing I knew, I woke up in bed.”

*   *   *

“Monsieur Lambert?” I could hear the woman's voice, but it seemed to be floating toward me out of a thick fog. “Monsieur Lambert?” I sat bolt upright in the bed, gasping for breath.