The Memory Painter: A Novel (23 page)

Steve looked crushed. “Sorry. I thought since, well, since it was you.”

Neil handed her a USB flash drive with a wink. “Made you a hard copy too.”

Linz groaned inwardly as the printer started to spit out paper. Now it would be on record that she had fished for the Renovo file.

“Okay. Thanks for the illegal work,” she said, unable to hide her irritation.

Steve looked ready to melt into the floor.

Linz relented and patted his arm. “It’s okay, Steve. Thank you for being … proactive.”

She waited for them to return to their desks and then opened Bryan’s file. The first page started with a detailed psychiatric analysis from twenty years ago. It stated that Bryan suffered from a rare form of schizophrenia, and from there the file only got worse. She read page after page, shaking her head in disbelief. Medicor’s investigators had done a thorough job. Most of the information here shouldn’t even have been accessible. The more she read, the angrier she became … at Bryan, at herself, at her father … Why hadn’t Bryan told her any of this?

She finished reading Bryan’s history and stared into space. She had planned to go to his place and talk to him after work. But not anymore.

The printer finished its job. The Renovo file was waiting in the tray.

*   *   *

The Peabody Museum housed the faculty offices for the Archaeology Department. Now that Bryan had Michael’s memories of Harvard, he had no trouble finding it. He had called and spoken to Dr. Hayes that morning, and because of his connection to Claudette and Martin, Dr. Hayes had granted Bryan an interview during his lunch hour.

Bryan found him at his desk, reading a stack of thesis papers. Dr. Hayes must have been at least in his seventies. He had owlish eyes that were framed by square eyeglasses, and an angular face that complemented his frail stature.

“So you have an interest in ancient Egypt?” Dr. Hayes asked, barely looking up from his work. “Please, sit.”

Bryan sat down and took out the drawing. “I was wondering if you’ve ever seen this symbol before?” he asked, getting right to the point.

Dr. Hayes blinked twice at it. “Where did you see this?”

Bryan settled on a simplified version of the truth. “In a dream.”

“I see.” Dr. Hayes looked skeptical. “And why do you think this is Egyptian?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off the drawing.

“Because I was in Egypt in the dream, at the Great Pyramid.” He left out the part about the Egyptian goddess or queen or whoever she was drawing it out of thin air with her finger. He could tell he was already walking a fine line with the professor. “Is it Egyptian?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Dr. Hayes looked confounded. “It’s an ancient symbol for Horus.”

“Horus?” Bryan asked with surprise.

Dr. Hayes seemed to mistake his surprise for confusion and went on to explain, “According to Egyptian mythology, Horus was the last god, or super being if you will, to rule Egypt.” He leaned forward, now fully engaged in the conversation. “You see, academia organizes ancient Egypt into several periods, starting with the Early Dynastic Period, which begins right around 3100 BC. From there, we move forward through the First and Second Dynasties, then through the Old Kingdom, Middle Kingdom, and New Kingdom, etcetera. However, the time before 3100 BC has become a subject of great debate.”

“How so?” Bryan asked, curious to see where the professor was headed.

“Our understanding of Egypt’s past is based on the works of a Heliopolitan priest named Manetho, who lived in the third century BC. He compiled a history of Egypt by making lists of the mortal kings. His complete text did not survive. But in the pieces of it we do have, he also describes an even more distant past where gods, not men, ruled the Nile. The Egyptians called it ‘The First Time of the Gods,’ and supposedly, according to Manetho, this time on Earth lasted for over twenty thousand years—well before 3100 BC.”

Bryan nodded. He already knew much of what Dr. Hayes had been describing. Origenes Adamantius had studied Manetho’s complete and original texts as a young man, as well as Diodorus Siculus and Herodotus’ accounts of the history of Egypt, both of which supported Manetho’s claims. Even two thousand years ago, Egypt’s past had felt just as fantastical and mythical to scholars as it did today.

“Academia has largely chosen to ignore this part of Manetho’s tale. Even though his timeline was also complemented by the Greek historians Diodorus Siculus and Herodotus. It would suggest that certain biblical dates are wrong.”

Bryan smiled. Martin had been right, Dr. Hayes was a wizard.

“Regardless of whether Manetho’s account was myth or fact, Horus was recorded as the last ruler of the ‘First Time of the Gods,’ the son of Osiris and Isis. And this,” Dr. Hayes handed the paper back to Bryan, “is his personal emblem.”

Bryan stared at the drawing.

“I hope that was helpful.”

Yes and no.
Bryan grimaced. He was glad to have identified the symbol, but he still had no idea why his Egyptian guide had shown it to him. He nodded anyway and stood to leave, “Yes. Thank you for your time.”

Dr. Hayes studied him with a thoughtful eye. “If you happen to dream up any more forgotten symbols of antiquity, I’d like to see them.”

*   *   *

Linz went to turn into her parking lot and saw Bryan waiting on her doorstep. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. What could she possibly say to him when she didn’t know what she believed?

He waved at her, but she backed away and drove off. Unable to think clearly, she drove aimlessly for an hour until she found herself pulling up in front of the gallery. There was something she needed to see.

Last night she had dreamed she was the girl in Bryan’s painting of the Treasury at Petra. The boy standing on the mountain had been her lover and was soon to be her husband. The music he played on his pan flute was an ancient melody passed down by their ancestors, a call to the heart. It had been the same song that Bryan had played to her that day in the Square.

In the dream, Bryan had been the boy and it had all felt so real. It had been so … lovely waking up from the dream cocooned in a feeling of warmth and joy. For the first time, she began to really consider what Bryan had been insisting all along—that perhaps Juliana hadn’t been her only previous life.

Linz sat in her car, unable to open the door and go inside. A part of her didn’t want to see the painting. She leaned back with a sigh, but then jolted upright when she recognized the car parked twenty feet away.

Without questioning her actions, she drove away before she was discovered. It was her father’s.

*   *   *

Conrad walked arm-in-arm with Penelope around the gallery. A stranger would have assumed they were father and daughter.

“Linz didn’t tell me you were stopping by.” She teased, “I would have raised the prices.”

“And I would have paid.”

“Don’t let Derek hear you say that.” She patted his arm affectionately.

Conrad stopped to study a lush and detailed depiction of the Shogun’s court in feudal Japan. Lords in ceremonial kimonos were gathered around two men, who were fighting. One man had a sword in his hand. Conrad looked at the signature, which was written in Japanese, and the twist of a smile appeared on his face. “What do you know about the artist?”

“Umm, not much,” Penelope replied. “Just that he’s from Boston. But his paintings speak for themselves. They’re gripping.”

Conrad’s gaze swept the gallery. His face remained unreadable. “Yes, they are.” He nodded to the painting of feudal Japan. “Is that one available?”

Penelope couldn’t contain her pleasure—he had chosen the most expensive piece in the show. “It is. The painting is based on the story of the forty-seven Ronin. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Quite well.”

THIRTY

The drive home from Linz’s passed by in a blur. Bryan was so devastated that he could barely function. Linz had seen him waiting for her and had just driven away.

By the time he arrived, his initial hurt had turned to anger. When he walked into his place and saw Michael and Diana’s things, he picked up the nearest box and flung it. He kicked two more, sending their contents scattering, and began to hurl Michael’s books against the wall. He only stopped when the
Dictionary of Neuroanatomy
broke the lamp.

He went into his studio and sat on the floor. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Closing his eyes, he sensed the figures in all of his paintings looking down at him, whispering encouragement. He couldn’t let Linz’s inability to accept the truth derail him. His trip to Newfoundland had brought him closer to something, and he needed to figure out what it was.

His thoughts returned to his meeting with Dr. Hayes and then settled on Claudette and Martin. What were the odds that their life’s work would be pyramids—and the Great Pyramid in particular—and that they would move to St. John’s only months before his arrival? He decided to research them and was surprised by the number of links that popped up.

Bryan clicked on a link with the caption: “Leading pyramidologists launch multidisciplinary study.” A student had recorded a lecture they’d given at the University of Paris and posted it online.

In the video, Claudette was speaking at the podium. Martin was visible, just at the edge of the frame, running a projector. “The Great Pyramid at Giza … if you look, inside the King’s Chamber, its interior shows signs of being subjected to extreme temperatures. Here, the chamber walls have been pushed out by a powerful explosion,” she said, pointing on the projection with a laser, “with a force strong enough to crack the ceiling beams. One theory is that this damage resulted from an earthquake, but if that is true, then why do no other chambers show signs of suffering similar damage?”

She continued as the next image displayed another chamber. “Here you can see a huge buildup of salt crystals found in the Queen’s Chamber. Why salt? Why here? Salt crystals are usually the result of a reaction between limestone and gaseous vapors, which suggests that this particular chamber took in fluids. Salt also happens to be a natural by-product when chemicals react to produce hydrogen.”

Bryan’s eyebrows shot up.
Hydrogen?

“The evidence points to the real possibility that this pyramid was a power plant, if you will, one that suffered a catastrophic meltdown. We have joined with expert engineers and physicists who are willing to come forward with theories based on hard science. What we’re touching on today is just the beginning.”

Excitement stirred inside Bryan. It was the study Claudette had been referring to at dinner. This was important. Somehow, this involved him.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He paused the video and hurried to the door, hoping it was Linz. He opened it—and was met by his mother, holding two grocery bags filled with food.

“I know I should have called first, but you would have just told me not to come.”

She took in the mess with a “my God, this place is a pigsty,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

Bryan didn’t follow her. He stood motionless at the door, overwhelmed by the force of an unexpected recognition—his mother was Anssonno.

Dazed, he sat down on the sofa in disbelief. His son was right here. Immense joy and sorrow overtook him.

“Don’t you ever eat?” His mother’s question startled him.

Bryan wiped his eyes and called out. “I’m actually starving. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ducking into the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and tried to get his emotions in check. He sat on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, just breathing, and let the grief flow through and out of him. He thought of all the years he hadn’t known—had directed only anger toward her—and wanted nothing more than to ask her forgiveness. Anssonno had been beside him all this time, nurturing and caring for him, and he had been blind to it. His prayer from a thousand years ago had already been answered.

After several minutes he was finally able to compose himself, and he joined her in the kitchen. “This looks wonderful. You came at the perfect time.”

“I did?” She couldn’t have looked more astonished.

“Yes. Thank you.” He took her hand and squeezed it, overcome by an incredible love. For the first time, he saw the same love that he had felt for Anssonno mirrored in her eyes. He could finally understand her desperate need to protect him, to give him the best life, to see him happy, because he had once felt the same for her. She simply hadn’t known how.

She stared at him, a puzzled look on her face. “You okay, kiddo?”

He looked at all the food spread on the counter and fought the lump in his throat. “Never better.”

Barbara rummaged through the cabinets to find a plate, opened up containers and started serving. It felt like Thanksgiving. Bryan didn’t even bother to sit down.

“Sweetie, at least sit. It’ll digest better.” She poured him some milk and headed to the dining table. Bryan chased after her—Michael and Diana’s storage boxes were out there.

“No! Mom, I want to eat in here. It’s messy…”

“What on earth are you doing with this?” she said, frozen in shock, staring at Michael and Diana’s portrait sitting on the shelf.

Bryan thought fast. “I found it in a storage box at the restaurant and wanted to do a painting with a similar composition. You know, a technical study.”

He winced inwardly at the lame excuse, but his mother seemed to buy it. “Well, you’re the artist. These were old friends of your father’s. He has their things. Just put it back when you’re done.”

So she knew. Bryan couldn’t hide his surprise.

Barbara gave him a look. “He doesn’t know I know. Your father’s so worried about upsetting me when it comes to these two.”

He couldn’t resist. “Why would you be upset?”

“Honestly? I wouldn’t. I dated this guy a few times before I met your father and he has this misconceived idea that I was a jilted ex when nothing could have been farther from the truth.”

“But you
were
jilted.”

Barbara didn’t ask why he thought that, but explained, “I was about to break it off. Michael just beat me to it. Your father was his best friend, so it was a little awkward for a while.”