The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (28 page)

Likewise with Shenz, a year or so back he had vanished from the scene for a time. I was too busy to inquire what he was up to, and thought I would soon see him standing in my studio, but when he finally did show up after some months of absence, he looked haggard and had begun his affair with the poppy.

Now it became clear to me why he was so adamant that I succeed at this commission. Somehow he must have suspected what had happened to Sabott, and after he himself was beaten by the conun-drum, he saw me as their agent of revenge. Perhaps I should have been flattered by his belief in my abilities, but

I could feel nothing other than remorse for what Mrs. Charbuque had made him believe about his own talent.

The greater question, the ultimate mystery, was whether Luciere was truly hoping the
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commission would produce a portrait that would in some way discover her as herself or if she knew of its corrosive effects and the power she could wield through it and was using that influence to play God. With her gone, I was left in a less enviable state than my beaten brethren, for I could no longer achieve heaven and had

not been officially con-signed to hell. In the absurd world of the game, I was now even less substantial than her phantasmal, sinister husband.

Finish It

Shenz appeared absolutely decrepit. He left the door open for me to enter and retreated away from the afternoon sunlight. I followed him into his exotic parlor and took my usual seat as he did his. The atmosphere was thick with the scented smoke of the dragon and the exha-lations of the drug.

"I had a minor setback yesterday, Piambo," he said, "and it has left me feeling rather weak." His hands clutched the chair arms as if he feared he might float away.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Can you imagine, the Hatstells refused my work. They would not purchase it, saying it was shoddy and no real likeness of their children." He shook his head. "Pigs at the pastry cart," he said. "I've spent the last weeks squandering my time and talent on dolts."

"I've heard Hatstell has had a rather severe financial reversal in recent days. Perhaps that is at the bottom of it," I said.

"Piambo, thank you for your kindness, but I happen to know he was just promoted."

I looked down, ashamed at having been caught in my lie.

"One good thing," said Shenz. "As I was sent packing from their home, the children came out of hiding and accosted me with hugs and kisses. The horrible dumplings and I have become thick as thieves.

I will miss them. I gave them the last of the candy before departing."

I did not know how to broach the issue I had come to discuss. It could not have been a worse time, but at the rate Shenz was falling apart I realized there might not be a future opportunity.

"I've been to

Mrs. Charbuque's," I said.

"How is my favorite enigma?" he asked.

"She's gone."

"The real question concerning her is, Was she ever there to begin with?"

"The house is empty, Shenz. The front door was left unlocked. I walked in and scoured the place for any clues to what had happened."

"And what did you find?" he asked.

"In the attic, portraits of her by some of my favorite painters," I said, and watched as his jaw went slack.

He sat still for a minute and then took a cigarette off the small table next to his chair. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a box of matches. He lit up and exhaled a perfect ring of blue smoke. "So you know," he said.

"It's a beautiful piece," I said.

"I hated it when I was done and had my meager rec-ompense in my pocket," he said. "I was at first so certain I had accomplished the inconceivable."

"Who is to say you didn't? All we have to go on is the world of a disturbed woman," I said.

"No, Piambo, I knew I had missed the mark once she gave me her assessment. I could feel it, and that feeling continued to grow, like a void slowly consuming my desire to paint again."

I wanted to tell him that the commission had nothing to do with painting, but I was just beginning to know that feeling he had described. "Why did you let me enter upon this doomed escapade without warning me?" I said.

"I regret that I did," he said. "I had such faith in your abilities. I believed so wholeheartedly that you could actu-ally succeed. When I went about it, I played it straight without trying to find any outside sources on which to base my portrait. All I used were my meetings with her and the contents of her wild stories. I thought if I helped you, coaxed you to roam outside the bounds of the game somewhat, and directed your progress as best I could, you would surely trap her."

"Shenz, I'm afraid your opinion of my abilities, though I appreciate the vote of confidence, may be a

bit inflated."

"No," he said. He shook his head, and I detected a note of anger in his voice. "It wasn't just me.

Sabott had that same faith in you, if not more. That day I met him in the Player's Club, years ago, just before his death, he told me about the strange commission that had addled his mind. So when I was approached by the blind gentleman, I knew what I was getting into. Sabott had advised me to steer clear of the Sibyl, but when the opportunity arose I could not refuse, even though he had warned that it would destroy me. Do you know what else he told me?" asked Shenz.

I said nothing.

"He told me, 'Leave that one to Piambo. He is capable of it.' I thought nothing of it at the time.

As a matter of fact, I thought it was just more of his lunacy. But as I said, when the commission was placed before me, it was at a juncture in my life when I wanted a test in order to know that I was not sliding. I

wanted to prove to myself that I could accomplish what Sabott believed only you could do.

Foolishness, I'll admit."

"Forget it, Shenz," I said. "Let it go, and you will be back on top in no time."

"Believe me, I have tried to forget it. I actively pursued the poppy in an attempt to smoke it out of my mind. What has happened, though, is that the opium has destroyed everything else and left that one haunting notion intact." When he finished speaking, I could see tears welling in his eyes.

He looked ancient. After tamping out his cigarette in the ashtray, he covered his face with his hands and gave in to his grief.

"You are not allowed to give up, Shenz," I said. "Pull yourself together. Here is what we will do.

I

will pay for your medical treatment. We will enlist professionals to rid your system of this cursed drug.

There are sanatori-ums for this kind of affliction. Then we will proceed from there."

"My God, I don't think I've cried in years," he said. "And now I don't think I can stop." He removed his hands from his face, and the palms were bright red.

It happened at once, my realization that he was crying blood and my recognition of the cameo pinned to his lapel. "Where did you get that piece of jewelry?" I asked. "The cameo."

He tried to wipe his eyes clear but only smeared the gore across his face. "Some pleasant fellow simply gave it to me on the street today. Walked up with a smile and pinned it to my lapel. With my defeat at the Hatstells' yesterday, I was receptive to this small unwarranted kindness."

"You're crying blood," I said, and rose from my chair.

Shenz looked at his hands. "So I am," he said. "Am I having a religious moment here, or have I blown a pipe? Oh, no, that's right, I remember reading about this in the newspaper today. It's all the rage."

I was already running for the door. "Sit still!" I called. "I'll be back with help." My leg was still bad from my beating the previous night, but I ignored its throbbing and raced down the steps and out into the street. Even as I ran, I knew he was going to die. If I reached a doctor, a police officer, what could they do? I knew very well there was no phone nearby in Hell's Kitchen, so I headed for Seventh Avenue.

Twenty minutes had passed before I found a saloon with a telephone and called police headquarters. I gave them Sills's name and told them where Shenz was. When the officer on the desk heard that I was reporting an instance of the newly disclosed illness, he became very attentive and said they would send men to Shenz's address immediately. Before hanging up, he told me not to return to the apartment but to stay where I was. I told him I had to go back, but he said, "If you do, we might very well have two more deaths. Stay put." Then he took the address of the saloon I was calling from, and hung up.

As it turned out, I did not return to Shenz's place. I will regret my decision until the day I die, but the unmitigated truth of the matter was that I did not have the courage to watch my friend die. In the past two days, I had been forced to face the worst of my personal flaws. I had betrayed Samantha, and my betrayal of Sabott had been brought home rather pointedly by young Edward's response to my plea for help when I lay in the street. I slunk over to a corner table and sat down, burying my face in my arms.

Having heard my phone conversation and witnessing my tears, the bartender brought me a whiskey. I

drank that and many more while waiting for Sills to show up. In my distress, I believed that the quicker I

drank, the faster Shenz's blood would flow, and the sooner the gruesome event would come to an end.

Two hours later, Sills appeared in the doorway of the saloon. He walked over, took me by the back of the coat, and pulled me to my feet.

"Come, Piambo, we must walk. You've got to tell me everything."

"Is it over?" I asked.

He nodded. "It was over soon after we got there. At least I got to say good-bye to him."

We walked out of the place into the golden light of the setting sun and headed south. When my step faltered, Sills supported me. He stopped at a coffee stand and bought two cups of the black street swill.

But it was hot and brought me around somewhat so that my speech was less slurred. When I was done with it, he bought me another and told me to finish it.

"Now," he said as we started to walk again. "Tell me everything, whatever you know about this Charbuque. I need every last detail."

I held nothing back. We walked down Seventh Avenue a long way, over to Fifth, and then back north. We talked into the night, and I told him the story of my acquaintance with Mrs.

Charbuque. I even confessed to him what had happened with Samantha.

I finished with the tale only two blocks from my house, and Sills walked with me to the front steps.

We stood there silently for a few minutes, and each had a cigarette.

"I shouldn't tell you this, Piambo. But Shenz gave me a message to give to you. His last words."

"Why shouldn't you tell me?" I asked.

"Because I want you out of this mess now."

"A dying man's last request," I said.

Sills looked away for a moment as if deciding. "Very well," he finally said. "Shenz told me to tell you, 'Finish it.' "

Tears of Carthage

As a precaution, Shenz's body was cremated the after-noon he expired. I don't know where I found the strength to arrange it, but I organized and sponsored a small gathering in his honor at the Player's

Club two days later. News of his death traveled fast throughout the art world, and I tried to get
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word of the impromptu memorial affair to all who had known him.

Shenz was one of those people who moved in many circles. In attendance the day of the gathering were fine artists, commercial artists, hansom cab drivers, bartenders, politicians, opium peddlers, ladies of both the drawing room and the night, thieves, and police officers.

Quite a number of his wealthy patrons made the trip downtown, and all in all, metaphorically speaking, the lion lay down with the lamb in his honor. There were no speeches given, no prayers intoned. People merely mingled and conversed, and occasionally the crowd fell silent. Tears were shed, and there were many long hard stares into the distance before things would eventually wind themselves back up. There was a little food and a lot of alcohol. I spoke to a few of our closest and oldest colleagues out of respect, but for the most part I stayed to myself and remained silent. I had sent an invitation to Samantha, but she did not attend.

The event lasted well into the evening and did not break up until near midnight. By that time I had stopped drinking and was sitting in a chair wrapped in a daze. Some of my friends said good night to me as they departed, and when I looked up from my trance, I saw a familiar face.

Goren, the Man from the

Equator, pulled up a chair and sat down across from me.

"Thank you for sending word to me, Piambo," he said.

"Have you been here all along?" I asked.

"For quite a while," he told me. "I've been waiting to have a private word with you."

"Yes," I said, and straightened up in my chair.

"From what I picked up in conversation with others this evening, you were with Shenz when he died. Can you tell me, was it the illness in the newspapers that he suc-cumbed to?"

"Bleeding from the eyes, yes," I said.

"I know a few things about this horror," he said. "Some years back, when I first opened my shop in the Village, I was visited by an odd fellow, pretending to be blind, who offered to pay me for any information I could supply him with concerning this ocular stigmata."

Now I came fully awake. "That would be Watkin," I said. "What did you find?"

"All I had to go on was a description of the symptoms, which I had never encountered mention of before. I told the fellow I would see what I could come up with and that I would get in touch with him if I

discovered anything. He said he would return in a few months and that if I had something for him he would pay me well. The image of the disease was a striking one, and I kept it in the forefront oi my mind, turning my attention to it as often as possible-This is the manner in which I bring a subject closer to me.

Since reality is two thirds a product of consciousness, I began to attract information like a magnet. I had opened myself to it, invited it—"