The Color of Light (12 page)

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” replied Graham.

“What do you mean?”

“The ivory towers of academia are filled with personalities who have supersize egos and happy meal paychecks. They fill the gap with petty bickering and backstabbing. I’ve heard some things.”

“What kind of things?” said Portia, leaning forward, elbows on the table, her eyes narrowing.

“That Raphael Sinclair and Whit Turner hate each other. That Turner is trying to wrest control of the school away from Sinclair. That Turner is shopping around for names, not talent. Famous artists who might sprinkle a little magic fairy dust on our quaint school. Even if they don’t know how to draw Binky.”

“He can’t do that,” protested Tessa angrily. “We’re the only classical art school in the country. It’s right there in the catalogue. If I wanted to paint like April Huffman, I would have stayed at Parsons.”

“Gentlemen,” said Graham, lifting his glass. “Arm yourselves. I think we are about to be witness to a holy war over the soul of this school.”

“Bring it on,” said Clayton, a peculiar joy lighting up his face. “I love being on the side of the righteous.”

They carried their dinner plates into the kitchen and scraped them into the garbage, piled them up next to the sink. Tessa arranged Portia’s apples in an Armenian pottery bowl and set it on the table.

With the cigarette still dangling from his lips, Harker reached for an apple. “Say, Portia. What’s that sketch in your studio supposed to mean? The one with the kid in footsie pajamas, and the bald guy holding up a feather.”

“Oh,” she smiled bashfully. “I don’t know yet. Sometimes ideas just come to me, and I get them down as fast as I can. The meaning comes later.”

Graham was brushing crumbs from his lap. “As long as we’re on the subject. I’ve been wondering about a sketch I saw on your wall, Tessa. By
the way, did you make these brownies? I’d eat the whole pan, but it would go straight to my hips.”

“Which sketch?”

“The woman covering a child’s eyes.”

“Oh.” She was relieved she wasn’t going to have to explain the one with the naked girl on the bed. “It’s about the Holocaust. My grandparents are survivors. Their families died in the camps.”

The table fell silent.

“This month’s
Cosmo
says that bringing up Auschwitz is a great way to jump start conversation at a dinner party,” Graham finally said.

“I had a friend whose father was in a concentration camp,” said Portia, ignoring him. “He never talked about it. But whenever we had sleepovers, I’d hear him having these awful nightmares in the middle of the night, calling out in German.”

Tessa nodded. “My grandfather never talks about it either. He came from this really big family. They all died. After the war he moved to Chicago. And that’s all I know.” She picked out an apple, began to take off the peel in one long ribbon. “I’ve been wondering ever since I was a little girl. What he had to do to survive. Who he lost. What life in his town was like before the war. What happens to you when you lose everybody you ever knew, everybody you ever cared about? How do you survive that? How do you go on?”

“You have a right to know,” said Portia. “It’s your story, too.”

“It’s like a hole in the world,” she murmured pensively. “The past is a blank canvas.”

“You should tell him that it’s for history’s sake. Everyone should hear these stories.”

Tessa pictured her grandfather, eating soup like he was afraid someone was going to steal it from him, her grandmother hovering nearby in case he needed anything.

“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” she said quietly. “Sorry, guys. I’m drunk. More brownies, anybody?”

After the third bottle of wine was gone, Harker got up from the table, stretched, patted his flat belly. “Well, folks. I hate to eat and run, but I got a gig in a dive on the Lower East Side tonight. Thanks for the eats, Tessa.”

“Did you choose your adviser yet?” Graham asked him, picking at the remains of the brownies.

“Yeah. Turner.” They glared at him accusingly. “Hey, the man’s a good teacher.”

“I’m going to go, too,” said Graham. “If I run, I can still catch
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
at Film Forum.”

“I’m going to a party at NYU,” said Clayton. “Come with me, Ben, otherwise I’ll look like I’m all by myself and no one will talk to me.”

“If I go with you, you have to model for me tomorrow. I need a male figure for my thesis project.”

“Who am I?”

Ben smiled. “The devil, of course.”

Harker and Graham left with the sculptors, engaged in arguing about whether Clayton had to pose clothed or nude.

“I have to go too,” David said. “If I don’t call by ten on Friday night, Sara thinks I’m out with another girl.”

He really was very handsome, Tessa realized. He had dark hair that he kept cut short over laughing blue eyes. A chin that jutted just enough. Cheekbones out to here. Straight narrow nose. A bemused mouth. Nice shoulders, slim hips.

She walked him to the door. “Where’s Lucian tonight?” he said deliberately. “Doesn’t he ever come to your Friday night dinners?”

“He has these meetings,” she started to explain, then faltered and fell silent. David, seeing something cringe inside her eyes, was instantly sorry he had said anything.

“Good night, Tessa.” he said, his eyes seeking and meeting hers. “Can’t get through the week without your
kreplach.”

He held her gaze longer than was considered polite, and she knew that he’d stay if she asked him to. “Good night,” she said. “See you on Monday.”

He turned, walked the short distance down her hallway and rounded the corner. She heard the door to the building squeal open and closed.

“I told you he liked you,” said Portia when she returned to the table.

“He has a girlfriend.”

“My mother says it’s not over till there’s a ring on the finger.”

“Hey,” muttered Tessa. “Kind of involved here. There’s this famous artist. Saved his life once.”

“Tessa,” said Portia, then stopped, after three glasses of wine unsure of the right combination of words. “You deserve better. Someone who is there for you.”

“I don’t want better,” she said mournfully. “I want him.”

9

L
evon.”

Levon jumped out of his chair. Bernard Blesser, standing next to him, clapped his hand to his throat. The founder of the school was framed in the doorway, the brim of his fedora pulled low over his eyes.

“Damn it, Rafe! You could say something.”

Rafe smiled, enjoying his little parlor trick. He came into the room, flopped carelessly down in a chair in front of Levon’s desk. With one gorgeous gesture he swept his hat off and held it restlessly in his lap. “Sorry. Listen, I was just passing through, and I saw Blesser in here with you. How is it looking, Bernard? Are we going to be able to afford to put in that ventilation system this year?”

Blesser held up his hand, indicating that he needed another moment to catch his breath, then rapped his white knuckles on Levon’s desk. “Knock on wood, if the furnace holds up for one more winter.”

Rafe nodded. Good. Gracie was right, the students were getting stoned on turpentine fumes. He leaned in closer. “Have we heard from the Rockwell Foundation?”

He skimmed his fingers over the pale wood of Levon’s desk. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Well, what did they say?”

Blesser wouldn’t meet his eye. His fingertips traced loops and whorls on the glossy surface. “Well, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is they’re very interested in our school, in what we’re teaching here. They’ve been thoroughly vetting us, and they think we’re perfectly positioned to
ride the backlash against modernism. They think we’re going to train the next generation of artists who make history.”

Rafe nodded impatiently. “And?”

“The bad news is, they want to see more recognizable names on the faculty page of our catalogue. Art stars. As insurance. You know, there are some big people nowadays working with the figure, Rafe. If we just
—
”

“No,” he said smoothly, brushing a speck of dust off of the gray felt on the crown.

Turner hustled through the doorway, frowning at a paper on his clipboard. By habit, he stopped just short of Levon’s desk, laid two papers in his inbox.

“Whit,” Rafe said civilly.

Turner started and grabbed the desk for support, dropping his clipboard to the floor with a loud clatter.

“God, I hate when you do that.” He straightened back up, trying to regain his dignity.

“I was just telling Raphael that we’ve heard from Rockwell,” said Blesser cautiously.

“And I was telling Bernard to find another rich family that’s desperately trying to give away their money,” said Rafe, looking Turner in the eye.

“Well, we’re going to have to do something, ” Turner burst out angrily. “You can’t go on supporting us forever. Some rich, eccentric British guy underwriting an entire school. We look ridiculous. Or try this scenario. What if something happens to you? What if you run out of money? Someday it’s going to have to fly on its own, Rafe.”

Turner wheeled and stalked back out. Blesser shut the accounting ledger that was open on Levon’s desk, gathered it under his arm and scurried after him.

“You know he’s right,” said Levon.

Rafe expelled a sigh, leaned forward, ran a hand through his hair. “I know, I know. Find another way, Levon. More parties. More patrons. More publicity. More foundations.”

“We’re trying. But they’re all saying the same thing. You have to try, too. April Huffman is a good start. We just need a couple more like her.”

He shook his sleek head. “It’s a slippery slide. I’m worried about diluting our message.”

Levon said mildly, “If something doesn’t change soon, there might be no message to dilute. Turner’s right. What if something happened to you? We could lose the school.”

“Is that why Blesser was here?”

“We walk a thin line. He wanted to show me how thin.”

There was an awkward silence between them for a moment. Levon shuffled some papers on his desk. “So,” he said, changing the subject. “Coming to the Naked Masquerade?”

Rafe was relieved. “Yes. Anastasia’s never been.”

“Hallie’s first time, too. We’re going as Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Are you dressing up? You know, admission is free to everyone who shows up nude.”

He smiled. “Anastasia’s coming as Ingres’
Odalisque.
”

Levon frowned. “Doesn’t that mean she’s going to be naked except for a towel around her head?”

“Worth the price of admission, I should think.”

There was another awkward silence. Restlessly, Rafe drummed his fingers on his knee. “About that other thing,” he said, feigning carelessness.

“Right,” he said, turning to take a manila folder from a table behind him. “I remember. Tessa Moss. Nice girl. Good artist. Got her file right here.” He thumbed through it, holding the sheaf of typewriter paper at arms length, squinting. “These days, my arms can’t get long enough.” He read rapidly through her application essay, his eyes moving at a measured pace back and forth, his lips pursed. In the silence, Rafe could hear the buzz of a fly beating its wings against the glass, trying desperately to find a way into the red slash of light on the horizon visible through the window.

Levon was bobbing his head up and down. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. Originally from Chicago, transferred from Parsons, got a job working for Lucian Swain, you know that much. Hmm, this is interesting. Grandparents are Holocaust survivors, lost their families in World War II. She plans to do her thesis project around the Holocaust. Here. You can look for yourself.” He turned the typewritten sheet around and slid it across the desk to Rafe.

“Does it say where they came from?” The paper remained on the desk where Levon had left it. Rafe sounded detached.

Levon picked up the paper, scanned it. “Here it is. Poland. Town I’ve never heard of. Can’t even pronounce it. Wi-li-doh-wah? I can’t read those names. All consonants, no vowels. You’ll have to ask her.”

Rafe seized the paper, scanned the neatly typed pages, found the right paragraph.
No, no, anything but that.

“Wlodawa,” he said in a distant, toneless voice, pushing the application away. “It’s pronounced, Vluh-duh-vuh.” The founder of the school suddenly looked tired, and he was rubbing his long fingers across his eyes as if they pained him.

“You okay, Rafe? You don’t look so hot. I was just on my way out to meet Hallie. We’re headed over to Curry Hill for Indian food. Why don’t you join us?”

He shook his head, unfolded himself from the armchair, stood up. “That’s very kind of you. It’s nothing. Too many meetings. It’s been a long day.”

Levon nodded his head, believing him. “So, did it answer your question? You said something about the drawing on her wall. That’s why you wanted me to look at her essay.”

He swept his hat back onto his head, adjusted it just so. “It opens the door to more questions.”

“Like what?” Levon opened his drawer, dropped the file back in.

“About someone I used to know a long time ago.”

“Ooh,” he chuckled. “Well, keep me posted.” He turned his attention to neatening a scattered pile of papers on the table behind his desk. “Just…be careful.”

Rafe drew closer, stared at him from beneath the brim of his hat in a way that made Levon uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, she’s a very pretty girl. And vulnerable. You’re on the board, Rafe. Also, you’re a well-known man-about-town sort of guy. Your interest could look inappropriate. And this year, we need all the votes we can get.”

Rafe felt a flush of anger. “My
interest
is my own business, Levon.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the office, his coattails billowing behind him.

Levon sighed, straightened out a pile of grant applications knocked askew when Raphael surprised him earlier.

“Don’t worry,” Rafe’s voice came floating back as his footsteps echoed down the hall. “I promise not to sleep with her until after graduation.”

10

H
alloween morning dawned a raw, leaden gray. Wind and rain lashed the yellow leaves off the trees and beat remorselessly at the nineteenth-century windowpanes. It howled down the deserted downtown canyons, snaked itself around the old buildings and whistled disconsolately through cracks in windows and doors. The few stalwart pedestrians that could be seen on Lafayette Street were harried down the debris-strewn sidewalks by furious gusts of wind. Passersby huddled under umbrellas looked up to find their shelters blown inside out. Masking tape crisscrossed windows, making huge X’s in building facades up and down the street, like a crazy game of tic tac toe.