In Dark Corners (22 page)

Jesus Christ, he swore to himself, you are coming unglued, man—obsessed by a faceless street person you've never even spoken to. C'mon, Timmy boy, lighten up.

He took a deep breath, shifting his perspective. Maybe it wasn't the woman at all, maybe it was really the whole pre-med grind. They'd sacrificed, scrimped, put family on indefinite hold. Carolyn had even dropped out of school to work full time; and he'd done his part, maintaining a 4.0. They were close—a high score on the MCAT and applications for med school out. So that was it, the obsession probably a quirk, a kind of tic.

Time to relax, boy, he told himself.

The tantalizing smell of pizza drifting across Telegraph from Blondie's reminded Tim he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He worked his way across the busy street to the pizza parlor.

In a few minutes he stepped back outside with a hot slice of pepperoni on a napkin, and he took a bite, savoring the spicy mouthful, as he watched a nearby street vendor displaying tee shirts on a rack at the curb. A dark blue one with a gold star over the heart read:
The man wearing this shirt is an undercover police officer. Lie down and do exactly what he tells you
.

Tim laughed, almost choking on the bite of pizza—

Clanging, thumping, chanting
, coming up through the crowd from back toward the University. Tim backed up to let the small band of Hare Krishnas work their way past along the sidewalk. They were all dressed in gauzy white, most with shaved heads or scalplocks, a few clanging finger cymbals or pounding small drums, each chanting loudly, and all smiling as if they truly understood the secret of the universe. As they passed Tim, a girl, almost pixie-like in stature, spun a tight pirouette in front of him and gave him a lewd wink; then, laughing, she hurried to catch up with the barefoot group of happy faces.

Tim shook his head in mock disbelief and watched until the band finally disappeared in the crowd up Telegraph. Man, you never know what to expect here in
Funkytown
—the name just popped into his head. After a moment's thought he remembered listening to a street musician who'd coined the name.

And indeed, Tim thought, taking a good look around, this section of Berkeley, three blocks along Telegraph that dead-ended into the UC Student Union Building, was more than the common mini-community found near most universities. Oh there were the usual fast food spots, espresso coffee shops, economy travel agencies, bookstores, and other businesses catering to the needs of students. But here everything had an extra spin: Rasputin's with its unmatched collection of new and used records and tapes; Top Dog, its grill covered with every conceivable type of frank and wurst; Comix and Comix
,
with the best of the underground; and The Other Change of Hobbit, the friendly specialty science fiction and fantasy bookstore. In addition to the stores, the curbs were lined with stands, stalls, and tables of street vendors, who hawked all kinds of custom-made stuff: tie-dyed garments, silver jewelry, pottery, belts, and buckles. Here, on the street, you might hear a man strum a guitar, make up some blues, and sing like Tom Waits; or a lady tell your fortune with Tarot cards; or a preacher shout a religious, political, or ecological tract. Or you might even take a lesson from The Juggling Fool. But it was the people who made the area really distinctive: the students from around the world, many in colorful ethnic garb; hard rockers in shiny leather and metal, their hair spiked in rainbow colors; tourists who came to gawk or haggle with vendors; and, of course, the street people, who came to hustle, beg, or just walk their pit bulls. Funkytown was loud, smelly, filthy, and Tim loved it. He'd been coming here to relax at lunchtime as often as possible during his four years of pre-med at Cal.

By now it was 5:00 o'clock, and Tim knew he should be headed home.

At Channing he waited for the light to turn green, glancing up the street at a cluster of people—

It was her!

The light changed, and Tim hurried across the street, slipping from the flow continuing up Telegraph, to join the group on Channing, who were watching the artist do portraits. He was almost afraid to blink, worried the woman would suddenly disappear again.

Like last Monday afternoon, she used a drawing pad over an easel, sketching with a thick brush that she dipped into what appeared to be ink, the materials similar to those used in calligraphy. Tim edged in even closer, knowing he couldn't stay long. The artist's sketching technique was unusual—she used an economy of long, sweeping strokes for each portrait. The result was something more than the common caricature done by most street artists, who exaggerated a prominent feature of the customer—large eyes, pug nose, or strange hair-do. No, this was more a suggested total likeness, quite good, and so fast. Spellbound, Tim watched the woman finish a pair of portraits at five bucks a piece in less than thirty minutes. Despite the lateness of the hour he remained rooted in place, close enough now to reach out and touch the artist, and he found her to be more fascinating than her unusual materials or technique.

She wore sandals, faded jeans—not designer stressed, but naturally worn—and a white blouse with a colorful embroidered thin band around the collarless neck and down the sides of the buttonless cleft—an ethnic garment, perhaps Ukrainian. She wore nothing under the blouse, but neither her partially exposed breasts or her figure could really be described as full or shapely—no, slightly built would be more accurate. Devoid of make-up, her face was longish with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the unusual color of a stormy sky—dark, steely-gray. Crow's feet radiated from the corners of her eyes, and the lines on her brow deepened when she concentrated on her sketches; but all her movements gave an impression of youth—smooth, sure, graceful, with an electric vitality. So it was impossible to guess her age. She had pulled her hair back into a careless ponytail, held in place by a mahogany-colored scarf, and the hair itself was a rich, deep brown, almost matching the color of the dark scarf, with a small patch of white—not gray or silver but white—in front, as if missed by a careless brush stroke. And the imaginary painter had continued with his brush dipped in mahogany, leaving the tiniest speck of white in her left eyebrow. But perhaps the most striking physical characteristic was her stance. She leaned back from the waist, her hips rolled slightly forward, presenting her genital area, a posture Tim had seen described in a textbook as a pronounced pelvic slouch—the dry anatomical description capturing none of the stance's explicit sensuality.

As he sucked in a deep breath, Tim guessed that few men would describe this woman as beautiful, her whole demeanor was really somewhat disheveled, but she had that erotic aura about her that turned male heads, and for him it was a strong, irresistible attraction.

By now the paying customers had thinned out, leaving only a few gawkers. The woman looked up, not really meeting his gaze, only a quick commercial appraisal. "And you, you want one?" she asked, her speech accented, her throaty tone matching her sexy stance perfectly.

Tim glanced at his watch: 5:35. Jesus, Carolyn was going to kill him. "Yes, but I'll have to come back," he replied regretfully. "Will you be working tomorrow?"

She shrugged nonchalantly and began to pack up her materials. "Who knows? Usually yes on Saturdays, but it depends on how I feel tomorrow…" She hooked the easel, then began to tuck it under her arm—

"Wait," Tim said, a little too loudly.

The woman stopped moving, really looking at
him
for the first time.

Tim flushed, adding, "I mean I'll be here for sure tomorrow. I really would like a portrait."

The artist stared at him with her interesting eyes then nodded. "Okay, I will try to be here." And just before she turned to walk off, she added, "I promise," and gave him a wide, full-toothed, beautiful smile.

Tim hurried home, the smile engraved in his memory.

***

Carolyn wasn't smiling when Tim reached home at 6:15. He'd forgotten to stop for the wine, and the folks were due at 7:00. She was in the kitchen surrounded by used dishes, the air heavy with the smell of something spicy baking in the oven, the sink full of prawn shell peelings. "Oh, Timothy," she said sharply, the use of his full name indicating her degree of irritation. Normally she greeted him with a warm kiss, combing her fingers through his shoulder-length brown hair. Not tonight. "Doug called—"

Doug? Oh, dammit, he swore to himself. He'd completely forgotten about his lab-mate from bio-chem. They were finishing up a lengthy experiment and were supposed to meet at 4:30 at the lab—just about the time he was playing Hide 'n Seek over on Telegraph.

Now Carolyn was really frowning. "He was worried when you didn't show or—"

"I know, I should've called him," Tim said, trying to look more contrite than he really felt. "I guess I was too busy at the library with this paper. It just slipped my mind."

She turned back to the salad she was preparing. "Not like you," she murmured, sighing. "Good thing I got off a little early today."

"Hey, I've still got time to run to the 7-Eleven. Can I get anything beside the wine?"

"Yes," she said, glancing back at him, "a quart of ice cream, vanilla."

"Will do," he said, picking up the car keys.

But before Tim got to the door, Carolyn asked, "
What
paper?"

"Oh," he stalled, thinking quickly, "something for my seminar in kinematics." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "I'll need to return to the library tomorrow to finish it."

"Oh, no," Carolyn said, the disappointment thick in her voice. "I was hoping we'd go to lunch before the concert."

He'd forgotten the concert. "Sorry, Babe," he said, leaving the apartment.

Out at the old VW Tim asked himself, "What the fuck are you doing, man, lying to your wife?" He slipped into the bug without answering, just shaking his head, wondering if he were on some kind of downward spiral to hell.

***

She was there in the same spot on Channing on Saturday afternoon, surrounded by a huge crowd of tourists.

Tim watched and waited…

Finally, the last couple was examining their portrait,
oohing
and
aahing
; then they were gone.

It was Tim's turn.

The woman looked at him directly with her stormy eyes. She nodded. "You must come a little closer," she said, beckoning him. "I promise not to bite you," she added, her husky voice reinforcing the double entendre.

Tim laughed and relaxed—which had probably been her real intent using the cliché—moving closer, trying to place the woman's accent. It seemed almost Asian, but she was obviously Caucasian—perhaps East European? He wasn't sure. He watched her concentrate, her gaze flicking from him to the easel and back. Again he wondered about her age…And, too soon, she was finished, tearing off the completed portrait.

He stared at his likeness a moment, then dug out his wallet, trying to think of some clever way to prolong contact.

The artist took the five, stuffing the bill into her jeans, mumbling her thanks; then she began to pack up, carefully putting her brushes and ink container in a little lacquered box, and finally hooking the legs of the easel together.

"You're not going already?" Tim blurted out.

She shrugged sympathetically, as if she were a patient parent, and he a recalcitrant child refusing to leave the park. "Time to go. No more people, see?"

He nodded, glancing about absently. "Well, let me help you with that," he offered, reaching for the easel. "I'll take it to your car."

***

"No," she replied, "I only live down the street." She pointed at a two-story building a block up Channing. "So, no trouble," she said, sliding the easel back out of his reach.

Tim grinned, stepping closer. "But I'd like to help."

She stared back, her eyes at first cold, then a smile finally thawing her gaze, as she let him take the easel.

"Besides," he pressed, "I'd like to talk about taking a lesson or two, learning your quick sketch technique."

"Oh, you are an artist?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No," he admitted, shaking his head, "I'm a pre-med student, but we do a lot of anatomical sketches and the speed of your method might be an advantage."

"A healer, a man of magic?" she said, her stormy eyes taking on a thoughtful look.

Tim swallowed and continued to press, hoping he was gaining some advantage. "I couldn't afford much, but we could make it at your convenience, you know."

"Okay," she said, her gaze refocused, "how about right now?"

Tim felt a rush of excitement, which was flattened by a twinge of guilt—he was supposed to take Carolyn to the Greek Theatre for the U-2 concert, and she wanted to go early, get a good place in line. Looking at his watch, he decided he still had a little cushion. So he nodded. "My name is Timothy McHenry," he said, drawing alongside the woman.

"Timo-thy?" she repeated, incorrectly breaking the syllables.

"Yes," he said, laughing at her strange accent, his wife forgotten for now.

The woman stopped in front of the building. It looked like a Chinese take-out restaurant. "I live upstairs," she explained, stepping into the narrow side entry and unlocking the door. "Come along, Timo-thy." She held the door for him, as he turned the easel sideways and slid by. She let the door close and said, "You call me, Nikko, okay?"

"Okay, Nikko," he replied, thinking the name didn't seem right.

At the top of the stairs her place was three rooms. The huge front room had no windows, but the cluttered work area was set directly under a large skylight. Nikko took her things and put them by a cabinet alongside a black-lacquered table with seat cushions. The perimeter of the room was almost bare of furnishings or decorations, as if the light from overhead lit all that was important in the center of the room.