The Painting (36 page)

FRANCE

Y
ES, THAT’S WHAT WE’LL
do, thinks Jorgen, feeling the brisk wind from the North Sea. When I find her, we’ll travel to the sea. He tugs his collar up to his chin and cinches his hands into the sleeves of his coat. Yes, the sea, the great expanse of blue, and we’ll wander along the gray sand, and I’ll find her a perfect shell. He blows warm air onto his freezing hands. He looks again at Daniel’s house. A figure passes by the window. He’s been daydreaming. Daniel is home.

He rings the doorbell. The maid opens the door, and a rush of heat surrounds him. It feels as if he could shape it with his hands. He hears the clink of silverware on plates, the rumble of a man’s voice, the laughter of a woman. He inches toward the front room, and there is the smell of garlic and tomato sauce. Daniel bounds into the hallway, his face bright red. He’s exhumed his old self and then some, thinks Jorgen, with the making of a jowl, the unpleasant business of death now conveniently behind him. Daniel gestures weakly toward the guests who are dining in the living room.

Perhaps you could come back at a better time? he says, his speech slurred.

Later tonight? asks Jorgen.

Tomorrow would be much better, he says with a tolerant smile. It’s so rare these days that I throw a good party. Jorgen smells the liquor on his breath.
Daniel looks at Jorgen’s empty hands with glassy eyes. Have you come about something else?

I need to talk to you.

One of the guests yells for another bottle of wine. Raucous laughter follows. Daniel hesitates, then tells Jorgen to wait in the study. Jorgen walks down the long hallway, into the dark room, and turns on a small kerosene lamp. Here is where he sold the painting. He rolled it out on the desktop. Under this light, they both stood stunned. It seems unimaginable that he sold it. Did he think it wouldn’t matter? Only another hole in his life amongst all the other perforations? But now he knows he must not leave without the painting, and with it in hand, he can see her coming home, back to Paris.

He sits in the chair across from the desk. What was the color in the painting of her dress? He closes his eyes. Nothing but white dots under his lids. He snaps open his eyes. Flowers or tears or something else he hasn’t yet understood? Standing now, he gazes out the window. His hands begin to shake. Her dress, red, but what precise color of red? Daniel’s voice drifts from far down the hallway. Where is it? He quickly searches through a stack of large books on the desk, slides open desk drawers, and climbs down on his knee to check underneath the desk. If he found it, he’d steal it.

Did you drop something? asks Daniel.

Jorgen rises awkwardly. Yes. But it doesn’t matter. Jorgen gathers himself. I’ve come to buy the painting back.

Daniel raises an eyebrow, a leer on his lips. In a bit of trouble? Someone discover it missing? You know, Svensk came by the other day and seemed rather surprised to learn you paid me a visit alone. In fact, he seemed rather displeased. He chuckles to himself. I’m sorry, my dear man. I can’t help you.

I have the money, says Jorgen, his palms sweating.

Daniel grins clumsily.

I’ll pay more than what I sold it for.

I’m sorry, says Daniel. I can’t help you. I sold it.

Jorgen leans hard onto his crutch. What?

I sold it. Daniel shifts on his feet and looks down at his desk.

To whom?

A rich French man. He belongs to a prominent literary salon. A very intriguing fellow.

Jorgen stands there, his lower jaw falling open.

Why are you looking at me like that?

But you said you’d never seen anything like it.

Well,
you
sold it to me.

Neither man moves.

Finally Daniel shifts his gaze to the floor, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, removes one, and takes several swipes with a match before he lights it. As he blows smoke into the room, he tells Jorgen the rich fellow offered a good price and, though he didn’t want to sell, the man kept raising his offer. Other guests were in the room, and everyone began to laugh, and someone asked, Are you getting sentimental in your old age, Daniel? It made me wonder, was I? It did seem rather odd. All that money for a painting. Daniel smiles weakly. And so I sold it.

Someone begins to play the piano.

I should get back, says Daniel. I’m sorry, my dear man.

Jorgen hears himself breathing rapidly. Where do I find this man?

I could contact him for you, he says, holding onto the desk, swaying slightly.

A tremor runs through Jorgen’s body and his leg feels stiff and weak.

Well? asks Daniel, now scowling. What price? What are you willing to pay?

Jorgen pauses. I don’t know.

Daniel tells him to think about it and in the meantime, he’ll contact the buyer. He tells Jorgen to come back on Thursday. He’s having another dinner party and the buyer will be coming. The guests are squealing for Daniel to return. Jorgen walks down the hallway and steps outside into the cold night.

H
OW COULD HE
? A
ND
who is this rich man now staring at the painting? Jorgen feels his chest tighten. He keeps passing by people, the same words on their lips, The Prussians have refused an armistice. Why should they call a truce when they know they’ve won, he thinks, and in the same
vein, he won’t settle for anything but the painting. But what if this man sold it? What then? He trips over a bag of garbage and almost stumbles and falls. But the question is so weighty, the near mishap doesn’t infringe on his thoughts. Without the painting, she won’t return, he thinks, and then what? The question presses down on him, constricting his lungs. When he looks up again, he’s walked himself to the street of the doctor’s office, as if this is the answer. The woman flits behind the opaque glass. With a leg, he could go to her. Yes, perhaps that’s why he is here, the doctor finally has been released. He knocks and white paint chips fall onto the toe of his shoe. The door cracks open. A narrow band of dark room appears.

Go away. Her voice is stripped of pleasantry.

The doctor, he implores.

Leave me alone.

But I must see the doctor.

Please, she says, the word sliding on her tongue.

He pushes on the door.

She tries to slam it shut. There is no doctor.

Please. I must.

Stop this! The doctor is dead! He’s dead. Do you understand? They killed him.

Her eyes are flat. The door slams shut. He steps back, mumbling, Sorry, so sorry, and nearly tumbles down the first stair. He feels a headache crawling around at the back of his skull. Stumbling to the sidewalk, he passes by a young woman roasting a rat. She squats in front of a small fire, a stick pierced through the rat’s body, and turns it over and over in the flames, humming a song. The ragged woman smiles up at him with a toothless grin. He pulls back, frightened by the ghoulish look, and rushes down the street.
Dead, dead, the doctor
. What did Natalia write? It is so easy to die. And it is, if everything falls away and you are left, retracted and cold. He must get the painting back. He grabs his hands and anxiously twists his thumbs. Death, he thinks, is the opposite of beauty.

I
N THE MORNING
, Jorgen flings another batch of pigeons into the snowy air. He won’t watch them go. Too awful to witness their easy departure. A rapid flutter, up, up, into an air current, and then gone. He pulls another bird from its cage, puts it up to his face, and whispers, Go find her, find her and make sure she’s safe.

When he steps inside, he hears Pierre call for him. Pierre sits in his dark office, a long candle flickering on the desk.

I think we have a problem, says Pierre. His long face looks haunted in the low light. Jorgen grips his hands to his thighs.

What is it? Jorgen asks, and by the grim look on Pierre’s face, it must be news about Natalia.

Sit down. Pierre glances at his calendar. Well, I almost forgot. It’s Natalia’s birthday today, and she’s celebrating, God knows where.

Jorgen feels a rush of panic. This would be the day, her birthday, when she’d do something drastic, he thinks. Throw herself into the heat of battle, surround herself by the spatter of gunfire. Why he thinks this, he isn’t sure, but he feels awful dread mounting.

Did you just hear what I said? demands Pierre. We have a leak somewhere in the supply line of goods. Jorgen shifts in his chair. His face remains placid. Pierre twirls a pencil in front of him, pretending to study it. Someone is stealing from me. Not boxes of things, but individual items. They are doing it piecemeal, hoping I won’t notice.

Jorgen feels a rushing of his heart. How can you be sure? asks Jorgen. Couldn’t it be errors on the part of the seller?

Pierre watches him closely. I’m not stupid. I’ve set up systems to check what comes in, what goes out. And I’ve got loyal sources.

They sit there a moment, neither one speaking. Svensk must have made some oblique reference to it, thinks Jorgen. Angry that I went to Daniel’s and didn’t give him a cut. You don’t think I did it, do you? asks Jorgen, trying to sit straight in his chair and look at Pierre without wavering. I told you about the sewer line. I’d hardly be the one—

Pierre frowns. I’m not saying just yet that you did or didn’t do it.

Jorgen’s hands grope vainly in his coat pocket. I’m concerned about Natalia. Aren’t you—

Pierre slams his hands down on the desk. For God’s sake. Don’t worry about my family affairs. Whatever happens to her, she deserves it.

The pounding begins, the headache rolling in like a thunderstorm. A tremor rumbles through his hands and rattles his spine. People are starving, says Jorgen. They know you are a wealthy man. You’re one of the few who is still in business. People like you attract envy.

Pierre sits up in his chair. Their starvation is not my problem. I’m a businessman. He leans forward and looks directly at Jorgen. If I find the thief, I’ll have him arrested.

Jorgen presses a finger to his temple and glares broodingly at Pierre. Pierre leans back so his face is half in shadows. Why did you come to France?

What?

You heard me.

I’m a soldier.

You were wounded within the first few months. A great soldier, I’m sure.

Jorgen clenches his jaw, which makes his head throb even more. Around the periphery of his vision, the images are breaking into small dots of color.

You didn’t even bother to fight, says Jorgen.

A half-hearted smile breaks over Pierre’s lips. I know my limits. A man does not just pick up and leave his family and country without a good reason.

Jorgen looks at Pierre’s hands, squished into tight pudgy fists. Long nails, perfectly manicured.

What crime did you commit back in the northern farmland of Denmark, what horrible thing did you do up there that made you leave? If you are stealing from me, I will call the authorities and tell them you are a spy. They will shoot you on the spot. It’s been done. I’ve seen it, and I would not hesitate to see it again.

There is nothing left for him here, thinks Jorgen. Natalia gone, the pigeons gone, he clamors up from his chair. You want to know why I left? he says, his voice hoarse and rasping. I left because I got a girl in a bad way. His voice ends
in a choke of distress. Took off in the middle of the night without telling a soul. It was wrong, and I’ve paid and paid and paid for it and my life will never be the same.

Pierre’s face splits open into hard laughter. That’s all? You got a girl pregnant? That happens every day in France and a man doesn’t think twice. My God. We just pay the girl off. That’s all she wants is your money.

Jorgen’s eyes flick to the door. He said it, he said it out loud, and now Pierre’s laughter hurts his ears. His headache sinks its roots; he walks to the door, barely able to see his way out. He grabs his coat and stumbles onto the front porch. Agneta didn’t want his money. She would have refused all the money that now bulges his pocket. The way she clung to him that last time, she knew, her eyes blinking with incredulity; she knew he was going. He tries to walk faster to stem the tears. It’s hours before he is due at Daniel’s, but he must keep moving.

A light snow falls and small flakes hurl themselves from the sooty sky. The French lost Metz over two weeks ago and still no word from Natalia, and yet he hears her constantly; she has become a ghostly presence, whispering in his ear.

Halfway to Daniel’s house, he hears humming. Is that her chestnut hair, grown back to shoulder length, swinging against a blue cloak, bouncing with her walk? Her gait, there is joy in her step. Wait! he calls. If she turns, what will he say to her? Not words, it is his body that aches for her, to hear her voice.

Wait!

A couple people turn.

Stop! Natalia!

The woman glances over her shoulder. The wrong nose, wrong lips, and the woman walks on. The cannons ring in the distance, making everything tremble. He stops and looks up at the sky. A circle of pigeons overhead.

A girl with a basket of dirty turnips stands in front of him and follows his gaze up. Birds, she says. Pigeons, sir. Dirty birds is all it is.

T
HE MAN HAS FAT
fingers and a butterball of a body. His fine clothes, a silk vest and a white linen shirt, a belt buckle of silver, do nothing to hide what has grown huge with rich food and wine. He is talking loudly about the war.

Jorgen feels the plush carpet beneath his feet. Rose perfume scents the air in Daniel’s living room.

The wounded man has become fashionable, he says, and a small gathering nods. Women swarm over him, trying to save him. If you have an injury, now is the time to flaunt it. I am telling the ladies that I have a problem with my goiter; it has thrown off my weight.

The women offer a hushed laugh.

The fat man stops and points a pudgy finger at Jorgen.

This young man, I’m sure, goes over quite well.

Daniel introduces Jorgen and tells the fat man that Jorgen works for Pierre. The fat man’s name is Dr. Daudet.

Daudet’s eyes sparkle, and there is a light glisten of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He takes out a white handkerchief and dabs his face.