The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (35 page)

He approached the altar and said to me, "You can keep working, Piambo. I don't think anyone will be attending this Mass. From what I've been told, the man who brought this poor woman's body to the funeral parlor said she passed away from a broken heart, although the official certificate says consumption. Do you find that odd?" He looked at me sideways, as if wanting to say more. When I

didn't respond, he continued. "The stranger left a request with the undertaker that I say a Mass for her before she is buried, but he was not able to stay for it. He left quite a nice sum as payment, though."

"What was his name?" I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"He didn't say," said Loomis softly. "But the deceased's name is Sibyl."

All I could manage was a nod.

"Well," he said briskly as I placed my hand on the smooth wood of the coffin, "I have to go to town for an hour or so. When I return, I'll say the Mass. I suppose I'll be praying to the rafters.

Unless, of course, you want to stand in as a mourner."

"Perhaps," I said.

"That would be good of you, but either way is fine, my son," said Father Loomis. He turned, walked down the aisle, and then left the church accompanied by the two workers.

I held my hand over my mouth as if stifling a scream.

The wood of the coffin gleamed with the colored light that streamed in through the stained glass windows. I moved my fingers across its smooth surface. "Luciere," I said. "Luciere."

Here she lay behind her screen. I was no longer in her power, no longer striving to fulfill a commission. I knew that what I should do was complete my work for the day and leave. "Don't give in,"

I said aloud. I wondered how Watkin had actually done her in and made it look like con-sumption. Did this too fall into the category of his expert-ise in disguise and costume?

As I told myself it was time to go, my hand moved along the edge of the casket to find the latch.

I

slowly pulled it back. The lid popped open a sliver, free now from its clasp. I took two deep breaths and then whispered, "I am here, Mrs. Charbuque."

There is no reason to believe me, I know. What were the chances? But I tell you that the figure in my portrait and the woman in the coffin were one and the same. Yes, they were twins. I cried upon seeing her. Perhaps it was for her and her tortured existence, perhaps for me and all I'd been through.

Whatever the reason, I felt as if I were weeping blood. She was dressed in a white gown, and around her neck was the locket that held the future. Very carefully I reached in and undid the chain from her neck.

Holding the heart-shaped pendant before my eyes, I pic-tured the two snowflakes inside, unmelting, constantly swirling around each other in endless predictions of tomorrow. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the lid, taking sure that it was latched.

I stayed for the Mass that afternoon, and I was the sole mourner at the funeral of Mrs.

Charbuque.

Epilogue:

The Angel on the Beach

Two days later I took a late-afternoon walk along the beach. I could not concentrate on work, and

Father Loomis was away for the day. I strolled down to the shore and sat on my driftwood log.

The sun was setting on the horizon, and the air was frigid, the water of the bay nearly frozen over in icy wavelets.

I smoked a cigarette and thought about the city and how much I missed it just then. With only a few minutes of light left in the day, I rose and was about to start back to the studio when I saw a figure in the distance, approaching along the shore. At first glance, the person seemed to possess white wings like an angel. They beat wildly and glowed in the last rays of sunlight. A tremor of fear ran through me. Perhaps it was the spirit of Luciere returning to claim her locket. When finally those wings revealed themselves to be the wide ends of a long white scarf, I recognized who it was and went to meet her.

Acknowledgments

I hope that the reader will not consider

The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque a historical novel in the strict sense of the term. Many of the locations, characters, phenomena, and events described herein were actualities of 1893 and can be validated by textual sources, but at the end of the day I am a fiction writer and not a historian.

Occasionally I played it fast and loose with the facts, both out of neces-sity and desire, so that I could bring you the story of Piambo's strange commission. Still, there were many works I relied upon in my endeavor.

For a view of New York during this time period, I found the following books very helpful: King's

Handbook of New York City 1893

by Moses King;

Gramercy Park: An American Bloomsbury by

Carole Klein;

Walt Whitman's New York, edited by Henry M. Christman; and Victorian America:

Transformation in Everyday Life 1876-1915

by Thomas J. Schlereth.

Some of the texts that helped to expand my limited Knowledge of the art of painting, and especially

Victorian-era painting, were

What Painting Is by James Elkins, The Art of Arts by Anita Albus, What Is Painting?

by Julian Bell, Oil Painting Portraits by Ray Smith, Victorian Painting by Christopher Wood, Whistler: A Biography by Stanley Weintraub, and

John Singer Sargent: His Portrait by

Stanley Olson. The quote from Albert Pinkham Ryder that appears in the novel was found at Rickie Lee

Jones's Albert Pinkham Ryder website.

For insight into the use of opium during the nine-teenth century I am indebted to The Seven Sisters of Sleep by Mordicai C. Cooke and

Opium by Martin Booth.

End Product: The First Taboo by Dan Sabbath and Mandel Hall is a truly amazing and delightful work on the history, philosophy, politics, and power of evacuants. It's a real shame this book is out of print.

For information concerning the Phoenicians, I turned to Glenn Markoe's Phoenicians.

Many individuals helped me as I worked on this proj-ect. First and foremost, I must thank my agent, Howard Morhaim, whose guidance and skill made it possible for me to write this book. I would also like to thank: Kevin Quigley for sharing with me his firsthand knowledge of the art of painting, Michael Gallagher and Bill Watkins for reading and commenting on the manuscript while in progress, Devi Pillai for her role as assistant editor, and Jennifer Brehl, editor, whose encouragement and expertise helped me make this story the best it could possibly be.