The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (4 page)

was about to return to my prices, the sound came again.

"Hello, Mr. Piambo," said a soft, female voice.

I froze for a moment and then spoke loudly enough to indicate my embarrassment. "I didn't know anyone was there."

"Yes. Well." She paused slightly, and I leaned forward. "You may call me Mrs.Charbuque," she said.

The Only Stipulation

I tried to recall if I had ever heard the name before, but nothing came to mind. "Very well then,"

I

said. "A pleas-ure to make your acquaintance."

"Watkin tells me that you have agreed to paint my portrait," she said, the panels of the screen lightly vibrat-ing the sound of her words.

"If we can make the appropriate arrangement, I am quite interested," I said.

Then she mentioned a sum that was far beyond even the most dazzling I had dared to consider.

I couldn't help myself. Taking a deep breath, I said, "That a lot of money."

is

"Yes," she said.

"I don't want to seem impertinent, Mrs. Charbuque, but may I ask why we are speaking with this screen between us?"

"Because you may not see me, Mr. Piambo," she said.

"How then am I to paint you if I cannot see you?" I asked, laughing.

"Did you think I would offer you such a great amount of money for an ordinary portrait? Money I

have, sir, but I am not a fool with it."

"Forgive me," I said. "I don't understand."

"Surely you do, Mr. Piambo. You must paint me with-out seeing me," she said.

I laughed again, this time louder, in ratio to my grow-ing confusion. "I would think Mr. Watkin, who navigates the complexity of the city without benefit of sight, would be better suited to the task."

"Watkin has his abilities, but painting is not one of them," she said.

"Can you give me an idea of how this might work?" I asked.

"Certainly. You will visit me here, sit before my screen, and ask me questions about myself.

From the information I give, my voice and my stories, you will con-struct in your mind an image of me, which you will then render on canvas."

"Excuse me, but I'm afraid that sounds impossible," I said.

"Impossible, Mr. Piambo, is a word I have found carries little meaning. I agree that it is difficult, but I have my reasons for making such an odd request. All you need do is paint a fine portrait, which I

know you are more than capable of. If, though, you should succeed in capturing my exact likeness, I will double what I have already offered. There is no possibility of failure for you, and there is a chance that you will walk away from this commission extremely wealthy."

As she spoke, I tried to form a picture of her from the sonorous voice that seemed now to issue from every point in the room. In my mind's eye I caught a glimpse of chest-nut locks gathered up in a bun, but as soon as she began to speak again, that knot of hair came loose and tumbled down into a whirl of perplexity.

"The only stipulation is that you cannot see me. If for some reason you should not be able to contain your curiosity and try to gaze upon me, the commission will be immediately canceled and you will be severely punished for your impertinence. Is that understood?"

"Punished?" I said.

"I will not be had by your eyes. Should you force the situation, I warn you that Watkin, who has certain—how shall I say it—

skills, will deal with you. Don't be so fool-ish as to underestimate his proficiency," she said.

"Please, Mrs. Charbuque, I'm a gentleman. I can assure you that will not be necessary."

"For my part," she said, "I will answer no questions as to my physical appearance, but other than these, you may ask me anything, and I will be completely forthcoming in my answers."

"And the why of it?" I asked.

"That is not for you to concern yourself with," she said.

A brief image of sparkling green eyes flashed in my mind.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked. "Don't feel badly if you decide to decline my offer. I have chosen another if you should disappoint me. There is a very fine painter, a Mr. Oskar Hulet, who I believe might do a wonderful job. Do you know of him?"

"You must be aware that I do," I said. She no doubt knew as well as I did that Hulet was still in Europe.

"Perhaps," she whispered, and I thought I heard her laugh.

Those eyes turned blue and then hazel as I tried to decide. I envisioned myself engaged in a struggle to the death with Watkin, followed by an image of Hulet at work on a masterpiece, which melted into a recollection of M.Sabott brought low in his twilight years, raving like a madman in the street.

"Yes, a deal," I said hastily, feeling equal parts of regret and exhilaration rush through me.

"Very well. I will be at your disposal between the hours of two and three, every day of the week save Saturday and Sunday, for the next month. You need only come as much as is helpful to you.

Perhaps you know enough already to attempt the portrait. At the end of that time, during the second week of November, you must present me with a painting."

"Agreed," I said. "I will return tomorrow and we will begin."

"As you wish," she said.

Before getting up, I remembered the portrait of Monlash and asked, "Mrs. Charbuque, the painting in the small room off the foyer, the one of the sea captain smok-ing the pipe, where did you acquire it?"

"Watkin purchased it somewhere. I also have one of your grandfather Piambotto's landscapes upstairs. Something with cattle in a meadow drenched in morning light."

"You know a few things about me," I said, not sure I liked the idea of it.

"I'm a thorough woman, Mr. Piambo. I know every-thing about you."

It was only that evening, while I sat in the balcony of Palmer's Theatre watching Samantha perform in a newly written version of the old tale of

A Ghost's Amnesia, that the absurdity of what I had earlier agreed to do struck me with all its import. I smiled, realizing that a healthy sense of humor would advance me further with this commission than any other quality. "And what was that business about Watkin punishing me?" I wondered. Mrs. Charbuque was willing to have me dealt grave damage rather than have me see her? I wanted to contemplate this aspect of things a bit more, but my thoughts were shattered when, up on the stage, a masked Samantha suddenly screamed at the touch of an invisible entity that had long forgotten the beauty of life.

Later on that evening, I lay in bed next to my love. A scented candle she had given me as a gift that night burned in its holder on the dresser. We had gone to Delmonico's for drinks after the performance.

The wine we had consumed and a lazy round of lovemaking finally helped me shake off the pervasive sense of uneasiness that my meeting with Mrs. Charbuque had engendered. I found security in the fact that Samantha was as direct a woman as my patron was mysterious. It was not that Samantha didn't possess her share of female mystique, but she was also unwaveringly
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practi-cal and forthright—very much her own person. These traits no doubt had allowed our relationship to continue over many years without her demanding that we marry. If truth be told, she was as devoted to her stagecraft as I was to painting, and this was perhaps the thing I loved most about her.

"How did you like the show this evening?" she asked.

"Marvelous," I said. "You were wonderful."

"The aging actress isn't a part that took much prepara-tion," she said. "But I thought the ghost was terrible. Who ever heard of a fat ghost?"

"He was more like a butcher who had fallen into a sack of flour. No Edwin Booth, to be sure.

He recited his lines like a dunce learning to read."

She laughed. "That is the theater owner's nephew," she said. "Derim Lourde is his name. The writer wanted to strangle him when the show was over."

"Well," I said, "his character was supposed to have for-gotten about life."

"The only problem," said Samantha, "is that he never quite convinces one that he has ever lived at all."

"I don't think the audience cared," I told her. "They applauded thunderously, especially for you."

"Piambo, you are my favorite critic," she said, and leaned over to kiss me. "And now, what of your day?"

I was hesitant at first to divulge the details of my meeting with Mrs. Charbuque, but eventually I decided I would have to tell someone. This was not the type of thing I was capable of keeping a secret until its closure. I gave her the entire story, from my meeting with Watkin to that afternoon's interview.

She laughed when I was finished, and said, "There is more insanity in this city than in the entire rest of the world. How are you supposed to accomplish that?"

"I don't know," I said, "but I thought you might give me some questions to ask that would lay bare her likeness to me through her words."

Samantha was quiet for a time and then said, "Why are you bothering with this parlor game?"

"It is a challenge," I said, "and besides, with what I earn from it, I will be able to escape the economics of por-traiture and paint something unique."

"So, you are in blind pursuit of wealth in order to avoid pursuing wealth?" she asked.

"Something like that," I said.

"I understand," she said. "I've been getting too many parts lately where I am asked to play the aging

actress, the middle-aged wife, the older . . . whatever. Last month I played a hundred-year-old witch. It would be absurd for them to cast me now as the lead and love interest, but I would relish the challenge to see if I could still bring it off."

"So, what shall I ask?" I said.

She was silent again.

"I thought maybe I would inquire about her child-hood," I said.

"That would be a start," she said, nodding, "but after that, ask her about these four things: her lovers, her great-est fear, her greatest desire, and the worst day of her life."

I thought about Samantha's list, and just briefly con-templating those questions caused the figure of a woman to cohere in my thoughts. She stood on a flat rock that ele-vated her above the surf, and the wind was blowing her blue dress, the ringlets of her hair.

"Good?" she asked.

I nodded, trying to focus harder on the image, but was momentarily distracted when Samantha got out of bed. In the candlelight, her body looked nearly as young as when she had first come to pose for me twelve years earlier. I watched as she bent above the flame and blew it out. Once in darkness, I

could see only a fading image of her smooth back and long legs. She returned to bed and rolled over to put her arm across my chest.

"That's a disturbing commission," she said sleepily. "Somewhere between foolish and mysterious."

I agreed, now picturing the falling leaves that adorned the screen of Mrs. Charbuque. It came to me that even that static scene of autumn must be a clue. "What type of woman would choose that object?" I

wondered.

Samantha's breathing grew shallower, and I knew she was on the verge of sleep.

"What is the scent of that candle?" I wondered aloud.

"Do you like it?"

"It seems familiar; very peaceful," I said. "Is it cinna-mon?"

"No," she said, drifting off, "it's nutmeg."

Crystalogogistics

Watkin closed the door behind him, and I took my seat.

"Are you there, Mrs. Charbuque?" I asked.

"I am here, Piambo," she said, sounding younger, her voice lighter than it had the previous day.

"I must confess I've pictured you as at least a hundred different women since yesterday," I told her.

"The imagination is a cornucopia," she said.

"Very true," I agreed. "But for the artist it can at times also seem a vast, frustrating Sahara."

"And which is yours today?" she asked.

"Neither," I said. "A blank slate, waiting for your words to make the first mark."

She laughed, a sound both joyful and demure, the sophisticated nature of which thoroughly enchanted me. I said nothing for a brief time, caught up as I was by the absolute serenity of that high-ceilinged room. Although I had but a few minutes before been out on a thoroughfare where newsboys yelled, streetcars clanged, and humanity surged, drawn on by a million individual desires and pursued by as many tragedies, inside this quiet, cleanly space it was as if I had been transported to a distant mountain retreat. Whereas the day before there had been a distinct urgency about our meeting, now Time itself yawned and closed its eyes.

"I was wondering if today you could tell me some-thing of your childhood," I finally said. "I'm not so interested in a general history, but I was hoping you could relate to me the precise event that comes in all children's lives when you first realized that you would not remain a child forever. Do you understand?"

I saw a vague shadow move on the screen and tried to read the figure, but there was not enough light coming in the windows for the projection to reveal anything specific.

"I do," she said.

"Please," I said, "tell me in as much detail as possible."

"I will. Let me think for a minute."

That morning as I had ridden uptown I had formulated a method by which to proceed. I had recalled that during my tutelage under M. Sabott, he had once had me practice a certain technique. Set up on one of the tables in his stu-dio was a still life composed of a human skull, a vase of wilted flowers, and a lit candle. I was to draw the scene by indicating only those places where the lines of the three objects and the lines of the background images intersected with each other.

"I forbid you to draw any entire object," he had told me. When M. Sabott forbade something, it was unwise to go against his wishes.

All I created that day was a sizable hill of crumpled paper. Many times, just when I thought things were going well, my mentor would walk by and say, "Begin again. You have botched it."

loathed the exercise was putting it mildly. Three days later, the flowers having lost all their petals, the candle now a guttering nub, I finally grasped the technique. Sabott leaned over my shoulder and said, "You see, it is possible to define a figure by its relation to those things that surround it."