Miriam's Talisman (14 page)

‘I'm sorry. This must be a shock for you, on top of everything else. I would never have sprung it on you like this, only I'd no idea …'

‘Yes, well, it is a bit of a surprise. There's been rather a lot of those lately.'

I buried my face against Uncle Greg's shoulder,
breathing in the smell of stale cigars. I wondered if Harold Shaw smoked cigars.

‘I can't take it in just at the moment, what with everything else.' But that wasn't entirely true. Somewhere at the back of my mind I was already making plans.

Another hour passed. Guests waited in turn to give their final condolences and I thanked them graciously. A taxi was summoned and Paul went off to don his white coat and play doctors and nurses. The caterers polished the glasses, packed away the tricks of their trade and departed in their mini-van. The cottage was mine again.

I wandered through the rooms, savouring the solitude, yet sharply aware that the air crackled with activity. The spaces between objects felt grainy, as if emptiness held more texture than solid matter. I was aware of Miriam's perfume even though my senses couldn't detect it.

She was everywhere.

The sun was rushing headlong towards the purple horizon. The last, lingering rays of light patched the floors and walls with squares of bronze. As I looked along the hallway I sensed something was not quite right, an irregularity which, at first, I could not define. Then I noticed a wedge of light, a beam of the dying sun, lying across the flagstones in a place where no light should be. Unless …

Unless it was coming through the door of my studio. My fingers curled around the door key hidden safely in the deep folds of my pocket. I didn't feel afraid as I walked towards the light though I knew, even before I reached it, that the door would be standing wide open.

H
E FACED THE CANVAS
, standing between Miriam and me. At the nape of his neck the sleek, jet hair was bound into a long tail, an inverted question mark. Through the dark, enveloping coat his shoulders stood at sharp angles, held high and taut. Here was tensile strength coupled with fragility, as if the muscles and sinews were made of spun glass: a body through which sunlight slipped and slid.

He continued to gaze at her portrait while I remained silent at the doorway of the sanctuary, a trespasser witnessing an act of adoration. The waves of energy between them were palpable. Seconds passed, minutes; still I hesitated, fearing that the thunderous rushing of my own breath would violate this holy communion. And yet I sensed that some part of him was alert to my presence. Eventually he shuddered, his back and shoulders quivering, and the breath escaped from him in a long sigh that finally came to rest in a choking sob.

‘It's too soon, far too soon. There is no sense to it. What purpose does it serve? So fragile an existence, so brief! How can you bear it, knowing that's all there is?' He turned to me, eyes brimming, his face tear-streaked and accusing.

‘Tell me, how can you bear it? How am
I
supposed to bear it? And why must I? Answer me that, Cliohna!'

His hands were clenched, knuckles white as bleached stones. I struggled to contrive an answer.

‘Because that's all we have,' I whispered.

‘Yes, that is all you have, your three score years and ten. It is a mockery, some divine joke played on a drunken reveller. And I wanted—I needed—so much more.'

‘There is no more.'

‘Oh, but there is!' His fist slammed down onto my workbench, scattering paints and pencils. ‘There is always more. It goes on and on.' He pounded the table, driving home each word. ‘Why? Answer me that, will you!'

A jar toppled, sending a stream of water to soak my sketchpad, staining its white pages a muddy green.

‘I'm sorry. I don't understand. I don't know what you want me to say.'

There was a rush and tumble of realisation. I was alone in the house—only me and this strange man with his beating fist and his yellow, flashing eyes. He gasped, all his senses now focused on me, as they had been upon Miriam's image.

‘Oh, no, Cliohna, it's all right.'

I stepped back as he reached out towards me. He looked at my face, then at his empty fingers. His hands withdrew, curling away inside his coat pocket. ‘No, it's all right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I wouldn't harm you. You must understand that I can never hurt you. It's only…I loved her too. It is important you know that.'

‘Yes, I can see. But why did you love her? That's what I don't understand. What was she to you? Who
are
you?'

A smile lit up his face. Then, for a fleeting moment,
his expression changed to one of confusion. He retreated, hugging his body, folding in upon himself. Then the smile returned. I was learning that moods moved over him like the swiftly changing colours of a chameleon, all equally genuine and transient. He wiped the tears from his cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve and his eyes pleaded with me like those of a small boy who had been caught stealing apples. I held the advantage.

‘How did you get into this room?'

‘Through the door.' He pointed over my shoulder, eyebrows arching, all innocence. We both knew he was laughing at me, and I nearly let a smile escape but caught it just in time.

‘I saw you at the cemetery. But you know that, don't you? You were watching me from a distance. Why didn't you come closer? You could have joined us. If you were her friend, why weren't you with the others?'

He continued to look at me, his gaze running over my hair, my face and neck, following the lines of my throat to rest where my hand had sought to touch the talisman. His lids half closing, his mouth slightly open, he breathed softly.

‘I knew her in a way that was…different. As you did. You are the only being with whom I could share this, who would understand anything of who she was. I can see from your painting that you have touched her essence. I can trust you with my grief.'

‘But what was she to you? And why would you love her for it?'

‘It is a rare and special gift, you know, to be able to capture the spirit of a thing, to record it and keep it. But you have done it here.'

‘Strange, that's what Miriam used to tell me. She said that I could paint and draw, that I could make pictures, which in itself was worthy of my time and study. But to be an artist I would have to learn to touch the spirit of a thing. She believed I had it in me, but it wasn't something that could be taught.'

‘Ah, but it can! I will show you even more. You will let me.'

‘Is that how you knew her? Was she your teacher?'

‘Oh yes, I learned a great deal from her.'

He smiled slyly, and turned to catch my eye, as if expecting me to share the joke. The insinuation was too unthinkable to pursue. She was easily three times his age and more. I quickly sidestepped and tried another path.

‘What I mean is, are you a student? Was she helping you with research?'

He was suddenly very earnest. ‘I apologise. I did not mean to offend you. You really do have a talent, you know. You have captured her spirit here.'

‘Perhaps I sensed somehow, or perhaps she did, that this would be our last chance. As I worked on the portrait I felt conscious of something—something more than awareness of light and shadow and form. It was as if she were with me, as if I'd become a part of her and it was my own self I was expressing.'

‘There, you see. You have to know a thing in order to be able to paint it. To enter into it, to be in its consciousness so that it can explain itself through you. This is indeed the Miriam I knew. And there is something of yourself there also.'

‘People keep saying I look like her.'

‘Yes, but it is more than that. What was it Eliel Saarinen
said? “No work of art, in any form, can be considered a work of art unless it reveals the basic nature of the artist himself.” ' The little boy beamed at me, proud of his homework and expecting full marks.

‘I'm impressed. How come you know so much about art?'

‘I've learned a little about many things. I wish to know a lot more.' He turned again to the canvas, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, Miriam smiling at us. He reached out with his long, delicate fingers to touch her cheek. Again unashamed tears coursed down his face. He seemed so vulnerable that I, too, reached out and, in turn, brushed his cheek, gathering salt tears on my fingers.

‘Who are you?' I whispered.

He merely sighed, then breathed deeply and said, ‘What I need is a glass of wine.'

Abruptly he stepped back, turned and left the room. As he brushed past me I smelt the faint odour of freshly bruised grasses and damp moss.

I was sure he had vanished again, but no, I found him in the kitchen rummaging among the surplus wine bottles. Somewhere between the two rooms he had shed the long coat, though I saw no sign of it. He opened a top cupboard, reaching for a tumbler, then took the corkscrew from a drawer. He was at home in this kitchen, perhaps more so than I was.

‘What do you think you're doing?' I demanded. ‘This is my grandmother's home. You can't go rifling through it as if it were yours!'

‘No, strictly speaking this is your house now.' His smile was gentle. ‘Who knows, perhaps it will be your home too.'

‘Then what are you doing here?'

‘I told you. I need some wine. Ah, I think this one will do. Now, this is one of the things I learned from Miriam, how to appreciate a good wine. I never knew there were so many different kinds. Did you know that the soil the grapes are grown in will affect the entire character of the finished product? It's amazing. Some people can actually tell where a wine was grown just by the taste.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh, yes. It's a fact.'

‘Look, are you sending me up. Because if you are …'

‘No, I wouldn't do that.' He had filled the tumbler almost to the brim and was now savouring the bouquet, admiring the stained light as it played through the wine.

‘Look,' I said, ‘I realise you were a close friend of Miriam's so I'm trying not to get angry, but—'

‘On the contrary, Cliohna, you are trying very hard to
be
angry and not succeeding very well.' He smiled at me and it was like being bathed in warm sunshine.

‘Cheers.' He winked and downed half the tumbler in one gulp. ‘Yes, I do enjoy a good wine.'

‘So do I.' I managed to inject a sting of sarcasm into my voice.

He turned, dismayed. ‘What? Oh, I'm so sorry. Did you want some?'

‘Yes, please, if you don't mind.'

‘No, of course. Here you are.' He handed me the bottle.

I stood there holding it by the neck, waiting for something else to happen and feeling stupid. He carried on drinking. Clearly, so far as he was concerned that was the end of the matter, and if I wanted a drink I would
have to pour it myself. By then I not only wanted one, I needed one. The emotions of the day that I had held so firmly in check were flooding in on me. I could feel my legs and shoulders trembling. As I fumbled with the glass my hands shook uncontrollably and the bottle jumped against the rim, spilling wine over the tabletop.

‘It's all right, my Little Wren.' His voice was suddenly tender. ‘I know how much you are hurting. All the others have gone now. You need no longer hide it.'

I fought against the stinging in my eyes. Standing with my back to him I was aware how vulnerable this made me, but I was determined not to show how weak I felt. The burning sharpness of the wine cut through me. I took another gulp and felt my body steadying, though my head was now beginning to swim.

I turned to face him, but somehow he had travelled to my side of the room and was now perched on the worktop, squatting on his haunches, his long bony legs bent on either side of his body. He took another sip of wine, savouring the flavour, rolling the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He wore some sort of high-necked, black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal arms that were smooth and white with the same bluish cast as his face. There were no hairs on the backs of his hands, no lines or scars—no imperfections. My eyes traced the path of a vein along the length of his forearm.

‘You don't wear a watch,' I said, for something to say. ‘I thought everyone wore a watch. For someone so obsessed with the passing of time, it seems strange not to keep track of it.'

‘Time used to be my friend. Now we have become close enemies. I would not carry its portrait on my person.'

He tipped his head back, draining the tumbler, then held it out to me. I refilled it for him while he looked down at me from his perch, his head cocked to one side. I backed away from his bright, unblinking eyes and leaned against the safety of a cupboard.

‘You have never been to Paris,' he said. ‘You should go.'

‘No, you're right. I've always wanted to. The Louvre, of course. Have you been there?'