The Painting (16 page)

He must pray more. No dinner because already he finds he loves to eat too much—the sweet bean cakes, anmitsu, and red bean pancakes. And he loves to smell the grass as it relinquishes underfoot. The piney fragrance of a tree branch on his hands after brushing up against it. His teacher said he still wore a veil over his eyes. Now he thinks the elderly monk was right.

But in some strange way, he feels as if only now he’s seeing the world; despite all his training to live awake and in the truth, it’s as if he’s never truly seen a fish, the darting sashays of color, orange, blue, red, and the one with
green specks on black. Or tasted the wonderful display of flavors in food. If he could, he’d eat all day.

He walks over to a tall pine tree and lies on his back, staring at the branches swaying in the wind. It’s a wonderful motion, he thinks. It’s the way that woman walks. Her hips moving, as if a flame were spiraling up her spine. The same swaying swirl to her upper lip.

W
HERE IS THE TEAHOUSE
? asks the monk.

Hayashi hesitates. They are standing under a gray sky, the thin dull light casting short shadows. There was an accident, he says.

They walk toward the black spot on the ground and stare at it for a long time. Hayashi smells the soot in the air, puffs of it rising from the ground where the old teahouse once stood.

I could build you a new one, says the monk.

If he could have it back, thinks Hayashi, the way it was before, its simple elegance, a place of quiet refuge, perhaps it would be as if the fire never occurred. The whole problem with the officials would go away. And if that faded, perhaps the ring of his sister’s call for help might disappear, the echoes, like smoky black circles bouncing inside, and his mother’s screams, his father’s heavy silence. His feet, the coiled gnarled toes, what if they, too, surrendered their throbbing ache? Carefully he lets himself feel the lightness of hope in his chest.

The monk tells Hayashi he did most of the repair work at the monastery. This job, he could certainly do. As repayment for letting me stay here, he says, thinking how much it will distract him from all the new temptations and pleasures of the valley below the mountain. Please, you must let me do this for you.

Hayashi bows low and tells the monk he will buy all the best materials. If the monk is busy building, he thinks, he’s likely to discontinue the prayer services for the villagers. He’ll be so focused on the building. Whatever you need, he says.

And now the monk is sure this is why he was sent down the mountain to this wide valley. To build something new, a grand teahouse, something stunning, something that will dazzle Hayashi and his lovely wife.

FRANCE

S
HALL
I
TAKE YOUR
bag, sir? asks the butler.

No, says Jorgen, gripping the bag to his side.

You can take my overcoat, says Svensk, handing it to the butler, a tall man with thinning brown hair.

Jorgen and Svensk stand in the front hallway, enclosed in the jingle of voices. A burst of laughter comes from the first room. White marble tile lines the hallway and a huge chandelier scatters fragments of color on the pale yellow walls. There is the distinct smell of meat cooking—chicken or beef, Jorgen isn’t sure. Svensk leads the way into the next room, which overflows with elegantly dressed people drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. A cluster of people stand at a large oak table, picking at the plates of food, and two women with bare shoulders are stretched out on a red velvet couch. Lit candles flicker along the mantle and a well-tended fire burns in the fireplace.

Well, well, the Danish man arrives, says Daniel with a flourish.

Svensk laughs and tells Daniel that he is in the company of not one but two Danes. Svensk introduces Jorgen, whose head whirls from the chatter and the overwhelming stench of perfume.

I thought they tossed all the foreigners in prison for spying, says one stout man, clearly drunk, his voice booming.

That tall one is a soldier, my dear man, says a woman with a pink ostrich feather in her hair.

He fought for France, says Svensk. Wounded in the war.

Jorgen gives Svensk a nervous nod, hoping Svensk will make the introductions quickly and get on with the sale. Before leaving for the soiree, Jorgen told Svensk his plan to sell the extra inventory items. Jorgen offered Svensk a percentage, and Svensk laughed with rich delight and readily agreed to make the introductions. But Svensk is coupled already with a woman wearing a revealing black evening gown.

Where have you been hiding? asks one of the women reclining on the couch. She twists her fingers around a long string of pearls that swoop from her neck and stares at Jorgen. Next to her is another woman wearing purple satin.

Sit. Sit, says Daniel.

Jorgen sits in a big stuffed chair in the corner, and a servant hands him a glass of red wine. He sets his bag down so it touches his calf. Five empty bottles of wine crowd the table, along with caviar, bread, trout, green olives, and a platter of smoked oysters. All those boxes in the upstairs room end up here, he thinks, filling these people’s rooms and bellies. He is fascinated and disgusted by these people. He puts his hand on his empty pant leg and shifts and twists in the soft chair.

We’re lamenting the state of Paris, says Daniel to Jorgen. It’s certainly going to fall. Those dastardly Prussians will soon be clamoring over the moat wall.

Poor France, says the woman in purple satin.

They’ll be here any minute, says one of the women with impersonal eyes, smiling.

Chennevières escorted shipments of artwork to Brest, said another man, leaning against the fireplace mantle. What would France be without its masterpieces? Prussia may have the thinkers, but we have the great artists and artwork, Degas, Monet, and Manet.

What a shame, says another woman with silver bracelets lining her arms.

The whole country is shamed.

Svensk tilts toward the woman, who tosses her head back, waving her blond hair behind her, laughing at something he’s said.

Jorgen studies the man leaning against the mantle. Young enough to have been recruited, he thinks. Who did he pay so he could stand here and eat this rich food and flirt with that woman with bright red lipstick? He decides he detests everyone here, and if he had a choice, he’d head home right now. Jorgen tries to catch Svensk’s eye, but he is fondling a gold bracelet on the woman’s arm. Jorgen reaches down and fingers the handle of his bag.

Daniel and his friends are discussing the moat around Paris and now the weaponry. A man with a big mustache tells them the Prussian cannons have a range of six hundred to eight hundred meters more than the French cannons. France could have had more power, but the emperor turned down the manufacture of Commandant Potier’s cannon. Yes, Potier’s cannon would have equalized the war.

A woman yawns and stares at the molded ceiling.

Our soldiers need women, says Daniel. Gorgeous French women.

Everyone laughs. Svensk turns and smiles at Jorgen, who points to the bag. Svensk nods, walks over to Daniel, and whispers in his ear. Jorgen seizes the bag, excuses himself, and shuffles down the hallway to the far end of the house. For a brief flash, he thinks of Edmond. He fought for these people, and now he’s on his deathbed. What a waste. He steps into Daniel’s study and there, rows and rows of books organized by subject—literature, cooking, religion, art. Jorgen traces his finger along the spines and stops on a Dutchman’s journal about the Orient. He pulls out the dark red covered book and splays its yellowed pages.
This is Japan. A kindly race with courteous grace, their choicest gifts bestowing. You must leave your shoes at the front door and tread lightly on the straw mats that cover the floor
. He stuffs the book into his bag. A souvenir, he thinks, and steps into the kitchen.

The kitchen has grand windows that face out onto a garden. The evening light streams in, turning the walls a deep gold and purple. He looks out at a tree. It’s been months since he’s seen a tree with its full skirt of branches. The leaves are dressed up with the same gold and purple light; he’s never seen such a beautiful tree. Its trunk, smooth and light brown, without any hatchet
marks or open wounds. But that’s not true. I have seen such a tree, he thinks, a similar unscathed tree. And it takes only a moment to recall the painting, the couple standing underneath a magnificent old tree and the branches splintering the light. The leaves, a dark red-purple.

The cook walks in, a big woman with a bright yellow apron. She’s carrying a mixing bowl and a bag of flour.

Can I help you? she asks, stopping in the middle of the room.

He says he’s fine. When she sees his empty pant leg, her face softens and she brings him a chair.

Thank you, he says, placing his big bag on his lap.

She sifts the flour into the bowl and the white powder floats up, into the air, then rains into the yellow bowl. There are stacks of white china on the shelves, and the glasses are shimmering. They must be crystal, he thinks. He’ll ask double the price for his goods, maybe triple.

There you are, says Daniel, his face flushed with wine. Svensk told me you brought a little surprise. By now you have a whole room of eager, undiscriminating buyers. Genevieve is so drunk she almost fell out of her chair, and Charles is telling dreadful jokes.

Jorgen pushes himself up and follows Daniel back into the room booming with noise. Couples sit lazily around the room, their arms draped over each other.

The Great Dane returns! shouts a man, now with a red face from liquor. What do you have in your magic bag? Tell us. We are waiting!

Jorgen blushes and feels a sharp sting of anger. Svensk winks at him.

Genevieve was missing you, says a man. Weren’t you, my dear?

Oh, stop.

My wife kept commenting on your strong shoulders. I pointed out your, shall I say, condition, and she said it wouldn’t bother her a bit.

His wife places her hand on a young man’s shoulder and squeezes.

Jorgen stands stiffly in the entranceway to the room.

Show us what’s in the bag.

Yes. Do a trick for us, says one of the women.

Svensk laughs, grabs the woman next to him, and kisses her on the lips.

Jorgen grits his teeth, opens the bag, and pulls out cans of smoked salmon, caviar, wine, hard cheese from the north, a small ivory figurine of a girl from China. To each, they
ooh
and
ahh
, and there is more and more, which he snatched on his way out the front door. Gold bracelets and necklaces of pearl, a pair of small jade earrings carved into the shape of seashells. Cigars and rich chocolate and a bronze bell that rings everyone for dinner. He pulls out everything except the book, tucked in the folds of the bottom, and the painting. He’s about to reach for it, but withdraws his hand. Not these people, he thinks. It must have a proper home.

I simply must have this, says a woman with a feathery scarf around her neck grabbing a fine bottle of wine.

I feel like we’ve all gone on a treasure hunt and won, says one of the ladies, who now sports a new pair of earrings. I look ravishing, don’t I? She wiggles her ears.

Open those smoked oysters, says one of the men to the other.

Without the Danes, says Svensk, you wouldn’t be having such a good time.

The woman looks at him with bright blue eyes. Do all the men in Denmark look like you two?

No oysters for you. Not now, says the man, hugging them to his chest. The next party. Next week.

Next week? Next week? Paris might not be standing. We must devour them now. We must live and make love and eat! Let’s open those damn oysters.

Jorgen clutches his bag and moves toward the exit. Svensk saunters over to him, claps him on the back, and says he’s going to stay a while longer.

Daniel accompanies Jorgen to the front door.

Good show, my friend, says Daniel. You were a smash. A big hit. You’ll have to come again.

When? asks Jorgen. He’s standing on the porch under a yellow gas globe light. Tomorrow?

Daniel smiles. Next week. Of course the money is there, but there is nothing to buy. This damn war better end soon or we’ll all die of starvation. I haven’t had a good bottle of whiskey in a long time. Keep an eye out for that, old boy. A good one.

I will, says Jorgen, feeling gloomy and regretful. He steps away from Daniel.

Daniel pats Jorgen on the back. There’s a good man.

In the pale evening light, Jorgen walks down the stairs, watching the bats swoop above the dark towers of Notre Dame.

S
HE BOUNDS UP THE
front steps to the hospital, two at a time. The morning’s gray air is wet and murky, so she wears a fine coat of mist on her hair and red coat. It should be a sunny day, she thinks, with light bouncing off everything, a splash of light over there, everything tidied and perfectly well. The previous night’s target practice went better than expected, the soldiers pleased with how adept she’d become with the rifle. The officer predicted that she’d leave for the battlefield in two weeks, perhaps less. They handed her a uniform, bright red trousers, a blue overcoat, a black belt, much too large, a kepi, her regimental number, fifty-three, printed in red on a blue band. Then they gave her a bottle of champagne and told her to celebrate. She was one of the chosen.

She yanks open the hospital door. Today she will tell Edmond, and after he scolds her and warns her of danger, he will be proud of her, she’s sure of it, and she will share a glass of that champagne with him. He will look at her with gleaming eyes and tell her stories of his battles, share his secret techniques, how he snuck up on the enemy, taking a Prussian soldier by surprise. When she finishes with her visit, she’ll find Jorgen, tell him the good news, and thank him for the lessons. As she walks into the hospital, she thinks perhaps Edmond will be well enough by next week to come with her. He was so chipper yesterday and when she went and prayed in the church, she had that wonderful sign. Edmond, she sings his name to herself as she walks down the row of cots with faces bobbing above white sheets, contorted in pain. She passes a nurse in a little white cap, who looks at her, a mixture of alarm and stillness, and rapidly turns away.