The Painting (19 page)

Only the empty hallway, the tiles loosening from the floorboards. She shuts the door and leans her forehead against it. Edmond is gone. She weeps, with the horrible sounds of controlled crying. There is no one to save her now.

H
E STEPS INTO THE
café for a glass of wine. One of the few places still open. Can’t sleep. Can’t be in that damn room. Someone calls out to him. Pierre and Svensk are sitting at a corner table with two women.

Come here, my friend! shouts Pierre. Come join us.

The women wear heavy makeup and low-cut dresses, their bosoms half exposed, their arms bare and pale, ringed with colorful, jingling bracelets. Empty bottles of wine line the table. Wine glasses with smears of lipstick sit in front of the women.

Jorgen hesitates.

Sit! Sit down.

Pierre introduces the women, Julianne, with glossy black hair pulled into a loose bun, and Vanessa, whose brown hair falls in rolls to her plump shoulders. Jorgen nods.

Sit.

Jorgen slides into the long, rounded bench next to Julianne, who wears a dark red dress. Like the color of the dress in the painting, he thinks, and with keen interest, he looks at the cloth. Not silk but something shiny. The skin on her face is covered with small bumps, though he can’t really tell because it’s far underneath layers of orange makeup. But she has the same color hair as the woman in the painting, and he has the sensation he must know this woman.

My friend, says Svensk.

Pierre calls the waiter over and orders another bottle of wine, more stuffed mushrooms.

This man is a genius, says Pierre. He sniffs out money better than I can.

Svensk laughs and the women join in.

Pierre, honey. You’re a sweetheart, says Vanessa. A pure sweetheart. She rubs his head as if petting a dog. You give us whatever we want.

As long as I get what I want.

The woman called Julianne titters like a bird.

Jorgen looks out the window. Nothing but darkness stares back at him. This morning he saw a bird sitting outside on the windowsill. With a chestnut brown front and wings of spotted black and white. The bird lingered;
Jorgen rose slowly, about to search for some seeds to feed it, when the bird slammed straight into the window, its downy feathers stuck to the glass. Someone hit it with a slingshot. The small body tumbled to the ground.

The woman in the dark red dress crams herself closer to him, pressing her leg against his. She reeks of cigarette smoke and sweat. She is nothing like the woman in the painting, he thinks. That woman would smell fresh and sweet and clean. He feels his leg muscles tighten and flinch as she slides her hand on his inner thigh. It has been so long. He wants to scoot away, and yet, at that moment, he becomes acutely aware of his deep hunger.

Svensk leans over and whispers, Nice to see you out here, old friend. They don’t cost much.

Jorgen smiles faintly, trying to dust off his former self. If he could slip into it, put on its slight weight, he could do this and the melancholy might slough away.

Let’s drink to the Dane, says Pierre, who is clearly the most drunk.

The women raise their glasses. Jorgen finishes his glass and Pierre refills it. Another woman joins them. Maria Anna or Anna or something, Jorgen isn’t quite sure. Svensk sidles up next to her, smiling brightly, and pours her a drink.

Like Old Jasper’s in Denmark, Jorgen thinks, with the men playing cards and drinking and the women hanging around, waiting for loose hands and money, and nobody watching their language or putting on stiff airs. Those were good times. The hand touches his other leg. He feels his appetite clamor inside.

Pierre pinches Vanessa’s arm. You are well fed, aren’t you? How can that be?

She laughs.

Julianne leans over and licks Jorgen’s ear. Do the Danish girls do this? she whispers. I don’t think they do. The French women are the best. I see you like this.

He puts his hand on her bare thigh and tries to stop it from trembling. There is a sad odor to her. Something that probably never washes off with soap and warm water.

Jorgen pours himself more wine and the woman finds his crotch. He feels
the heat and a strange hollowing in his chest. Svensk has his arm around the new woman, and she is kissing his cheek.

Do you always blush, asks Julianne, or are you just getting warm? She giggles, her fleshy shoulders shaking.

Svensk hears her comment and laughs. You should have seen this man in Denmark. A lady’s man. A big lady’s man. Women hanging off his arms. Real beauties. One after the other.

Jorgen shifts uncomfortably.

We’ve got these women here to help us celebrate this fabulous bottle of wine, says Pierre, reaching over and pinching Vanessa’s nipples.

Not here, doll, she says, kissing him on the lips.

Then we shall return to the boardinghouse, says Pierre, rising and pulling Vanessa along with him. The others stand and Julianne slinks up beside Jorgen. They walk to the front door.

You get along pretty well on those crutches, says Julianne.

Jorgen clenches his jaw.

Don’t worry, she says. I’ve been with plenty of injured soldiers. I consider it my duty, she says, then bursts out with a hardy laugh, and the woman called Vanessa joins in. Svensk and the woman turn down one of the streets. Heading home for my own private party, he says.

The streets are empty, only the continual crackling of gunfire in the distance. The lamplights glow in the mist. Jorgen feels the damp night on his face and, glancing up, he wonders, Where is the moon?

They enter the boardinghouse, and Pierre grabs Vanessa by the arm and leads her into the back room. Jorgen and Julianne stand in the front room. She tugs on his arm.

Are you up this way? she asks, pointing to the staircase. He follows along, numb. Almost immediately, she is standing in his room naked. The sight of her is jarring. He has spent so much time alone in this room that it feels almost blasphemous to bring her here. He stands by the door, fully clothed. She climbs into his bed.

Come in, she says. It’s cold.

He barely knows what he is doing.

Let me help, she says.

He makes her turn off the light. She unbuttons his shirt, unbuttons his pants. It is over so fast, and she immediately falls asleep. Jorgen scoots to the edge of his cot, far from her, not wanting to touch her, and presses his fingers to his temples. For hours, he lies staring at the wall, listening to the shattering bursts of shells. When he wakes, a red dawn colors the mist. She is gone, but the smell of her stains his sheets. Stripping off the bedcovers, he rolls them into a ball to clean later. He scrubs himself with soap and throws cold water over his head, then steps into his office. His head throbs and the light is too bright. Even though he washed, her smell is still on him. He feels a wave of nausea when Pierre comes into his office in a bitter mood.

That damn whore stole all my money.

Jorgen looks at Pierre’s gray face.

Goddamn her. Pierre tells him how much.

She didn’t take it, says Jorgen. You spent it all.

On what?

Wine. The women. Food.

Pierre studies him coldly. I have new inventory coming in today, he says. I want you to unpack the boxes and make a list of what’s arrived. Pierre is about to leave. And the price for last night?

Jorgen looks up from his numbers.

The whore. I will deduct it from your wages. I’m not here to provide you with entertainment. He smiles. You should think before you spend.

Pierre leaves. Jorgen sits in the stunned silence of the morning. He feels sick, his stomach turning and quivering. Clutching his coat and crutches, he walks down the hallway, down the stairs, steps outside onto the porch and stops in his tracks. A light white frost coats the thin blades of grass, turning everything into a crystallized dreamland, as if the stars floated down to earth and covered the grass. His heart jumps. He feels as though he’s looking into the true vision of something, the way the world dismantles and tumbles to reveal itself. Each thin green line shimmers in its misty greenness. He steps down from the porch and the grass crunches under his crutches, the frost holding each blade in perfect pose. He turns around to show someone.

JAPAN

W
HATEVER AM
I
DOING
here? The monk stares at the stack of boards. If he were at the monastery, he would have recited morning prayers until noon instead of pounding in nails and measuring boards. It’s now midafternoon. He glances over at the temple. Today, no one came to the temple to pray. But yesterday, an old man came, collapsed on his knees, and wept, overwhelmed by the beauty of Buddha. The monk rushed over and perched his hand on the man’s frail shoulder, trying to give comfort, but at the same time, feeling cut off from the man, knowing he once felt the same way about Buddha, but not since he’s come down the mountain.

He chooses a piece of wood and absentmindedly rubs his thumb against the grain. So pleasurable, the texture. But just as he lets himself indulge in the fine grain, protruding behind it is the glimmering image of the old man, his face enraptured with what, joy? Yes, joy for Buddha. He sets the saw down. Where is my devotion? thinks the monk. What has become of me? He picks up the shovel and jabs it at the hard ground, trying to chase away the soft pain pushing at his ribs.

He’s been working on the teahouse for five days and by now he knows any moment she will walk by on her way to the studio or to the gardens. What
will I say? Every time, there is this rush of panic, the heart racing, what to say, what to say? If I were at the monastery, I wouldn’t have to speak at all. Not say a word to anyone for days. How easy that life was; how hard and yet how easy to live tucked away in a monastery. He glances toward the house. What will she think of me if I have nothing to say?

H
E WILL BE HERE
for a while, Ayoshi thinks, as she watches the monk from the hallway window. He is building the new teahouse, his brow intense and furrowed as he paces the clearing and then drives the shovel into the ground, digging a deep hole for a post, carefully measures each board twice, sometimes three times, and bears down on the saw, as if his whole being depended on it. He wears new workman pants and a white canvas shirt—Hayashi must have sent the gardener to town to buy such clothes—rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and wide wrists. Look at how meticulous he is, she thinks; he will take his time with this project. And this thought, along with the sense that something new is coming—look at the stack of fresh wood, the color of newborn flesh—delights her and fills her with nervous fear.

Ayoshi walks into the kitchen. Sato is slumped at the table.

At least that young man knows how to do something useful, says Sato, turning a tired gaze toward Ayoshi. He picks up his bowl and slurps his steaming miso soup. The room is filled with the sound of a hammer pounding and the intermittent growling of a saw tearing through wood. But that awful pounding, he says, pressing his hands to his throbbing head.

You don’t like him? she asks, leaning her back against the wall. She watches, trying to gauge his mood. He doesn’t look like he’s slept; his hair is splayed out in the back and dark circles lie under his eyes. She guesses he spent last night with his body tucked tightly around his pipe.

He coughs, his throat parched and dry. I’ve never seen much need for religion. Especially a monk’s practice. A waste of a life. Look at him. A strong, strapping man like that throwing himself into self-mortification and denial. All those hours of sitting and sitting. For what? So in the next life he will return more holy?

Some people consider it noble, she says.

He looks at her, his expression wild and fierce. I’ve never gauged myself by what others think.

That’s obvious. She stares at the flower arrangement the maid has placed on the table, cuttings from the apricot tree. I’m not sure he has the temperament of a monk, she says. She tells Sato that the other day, the monk was stretched out under a tree, humming.

Well. Good. A breakthrough. He sips his soup and pauses. He turns toward her. What do you think of him? he asks, his voice strangely apprehensive.

He seems quite happy. Which is more than I can say about you.

Me? I’m happy. Why shouldn’t I be happy? I make more money in a day than most people earn in a year.

He gets up and strides over to the window, lean as a knife, his shoulders hunched, as if he planned to pounce. What does the world need with a man like him? he says, staring at the monk from the window. Tell me that. What does he produce? What does he grow? Or create? How does he help anyone? If we populated the world with men like him, everything would come to a halt.

Maybe that would be good.

If he extols the virtues of Buddhism, I’ll walk away.

If you continue to tell me how to live my life, I’ll walk away.

He looks at her with tender, sympathetic eyes.

Why did she tell him anything, she thinks, wishing once again she’d contained everything, Urashi, the baby, kept it tight in a strong box, as she’d done for so long.

When are you going to show me the rest of your paintings? he asks. I loved the one of the drowning woman.

The blood rushes to her face. I don’t know, she says, putting on her coat. I’m going for a walk.

She steps outside and strides toward the far wavering edge of the garden. The air feels like a fine veil thrown over her face. As she passes the monk, she prepares for that brazen stare. But the monk doesn’t look up, not even an
acknowledging nod. Yesterday he said hello, but the days before, he only nodded. Sweat runs down the sides of his face. He places his foot on the metal shovel and tears open the dirt. She hears the scraping, his huffing, and the dumping of the dirt on the ground.

That bold stare the other night, she thinks, probably a young man’s first long glance at a woman, an innocent gesture, and then he decides what he needs to know and it is over. Good, she thinks, well and good, she will have her peace. She walks down the sloping hill to the stone bench, away from the sight of the house and studio.