The World Behind the Door (10 page)

      
"I'm not following you."

      
"
Who
is Time deluding?
Who
remembers things as they were, and has difficulty adjusting to things as they are?"

      
"Everyone."

      
"But
everyone
isn't creating the painting," he pointed out. "
I
am."

      
"Then you are going to be the subject of your own painting?"
 
she asked.

      
He shook his head impatiently. "I will be
in
the painting, but the subject is Time, and the way it fools memory—and just as Time will be represented by watches that are as soft as overripe cheese, watches that are losing their structural integrity, that is the way I myself must be represented."

      
"I don't understand," said Jinx, frowning. "Why must you also be soft?"

      
"More than soft," answered Dali. "I must be almost shapeless."

      
"Still why?"

      
"If I painted myself as I am, I would be saying that Time has no effect on me, that no matter how inaccurate my memories become with the passage of Time, I am exactly the same man I would be if Time did not pass at all."

      
He leaned forward and began sketching a grotesquely misshapen body. Finally he finished and leaned back.

      
"What do you think?" he asked Jinx.

      
"I don't like it," she said. "No one will ever know it's a human, let alone that it's you."

      
"They don't have to know it's me, as long as
I
know it," he said. "But I agree. I can't put in the details I want if I use my entire body. I think I'll just use a hugely-distorted head."

      
He sketched again, then stopped and stared at what he'd done.

      
"It doesn't look like a head," said Jinx.

      
"It has eyelashes and a nose," noted Dali. "What else could it possibly be?"

      
"In a world with limp clocks? It could be anything."

      
"Then I will provide it with another facial feature, perhaps two," said Dali. "But first I will have to consider what features to use."

      
"And where will the watches be?" asked Jinx.

      
"Good question," he said. "I have been thinking about it, and I believe I have the answer."

      
"What is it?"

      
He pointed to a corner of the studio. "Stand over there."

      
She did as he asked.

      
"Now count to three."

      
"One. Two. Three."

      
"Very good," he said. "Now go stand by the door to the kitchen."

      
She did so.

      
"Count again."

      
"One. Two. Three."

      
"Well, there you have it," said Dali, nodding his head in satisfaction.

      
"There I have
what
?" asked Jinx, puzzled.

      
"Don't you see?" said Dali. "Time doesn't exist just in the corner, or just by the door, or here at the easel. It's
everywhere
at once."

      
"I knew that."

      
"Sometimes the things we know are the least obvious to us," said Dali. "Since Time is everywhere at once, what I must do is create a landscape, to show that Time is not merely a villain in my studio, or whatever museum or private home in which the painting eventually hangs. To show the universality of the theme, I must show a large landscape."

      
"You could show the watches in outer space, or on Mars," suggested Jinx.

      
"An intriguing suggestion," he said, suddenly interested. Then he shook his head. "No, I do not know for a fact that Time is a villain on Mars. Probably it is, but I have never been to Mars or outer space, so I can't be sure. I will paint the watches on Earth—but in a landscape that cannot be identified as Spain or anywhere else. That will show that it is true everywhere." He paused to consider the painting further, then continued: "I think the landscape must be bleak beyond imagining, to show the detritus of Time's march through the world. Perhaps I will even hang one of the watches on the leafless limb of a dead tree, to emphasize that fact." He paused. "Yes, that will work. And I will use no undiluted primarily colors, which will further lend to the effect." He frowned briefly. "But I still need something else, something to hold the attention."

      
"Don't you think limp watches and a barely-human face will hold the attention?" asked Jinx.

      
"They will
capture
the attention. But I must add something more, something small, to
hold
the attention. Something that is not obvious at first, but which they will see when they study the painting and which will force them to study it further." He sighed deeply. "I am still not considering all the facets of this painting. Time affects more than the memory. Eventually it will kill you and me and every living thing. Even rocks will decay in the fullness of time. Time is not only a villain, but a murderer. I must make that clear."

      
"How much bleaker can you make it?" asked Jinx curiously.

      
"In that direction lies disaster," replied Dali. "That would make the painting so bleak, so lifeless, that no one would look at it for more than a few seconds before they were overcome by hopelessness and depression. No, the answer lies elsewhere." He turned to her. "And of course you know what it is."

      
"Why should you say that?"

      
"Because, my precocious young lady, every other aspect of the painting is due to your input, so surely you know what else is needed to make it perfect."

      
"I never told you to paint limp watches and a misshapen face," said Jinx. "They're your own ideas."

      
"But it was you who convinced me to search for such unique ideas," answered Dali. "Who else in all the world would paint a limp watch? Who else would paint an elephant on stilt-like legs, which I shall certainly do one of these days. No, Jinx, you may not have said 'Paint this!' or 'Draw that!', but you were the one who convinced me to look for things that only I can see and paint. So," he concluded, "what is the answer? What more must I put into the painting?"

      
"I really don't know," said Jinx.

      
"And if you did, you wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?" said Dali.

      
"Probably not," she admitted. "But I really and truly don't know."

      
"Then I must study it further and come up with the solution myself."

      
He turned back to the sketch and sat motionless in front of it for the better part of an hour.

      
"Bah!" he said. "I need air. I am going out for a walk."

      
"I'll come with you."

      
"Well," he said, putting on a satin cape and grabbing a silver-headed cane, "let's go, then."

      
"It's quite warm out," she said. "You don't need the cape."

      
"I don't wear it for
me
," he said disdainfully. "I wear it for
them
."

      
"Them?"

      
"The same people I use the cane for, the same people I will cultivate the mustache for. In brief, everyone but me."

      
"And me," added Jinx.

      
"And you," he agreed, opening the door for her.

 

 

 

Chapter 11: The Finishing Touch

 

      
They had walked through the empty streets for perhaps an hour. Twice they passed men Dali knew. Both times the men grunted a greeting, but never mentioned Jinx. As they continued their stroll, Dali became silent and seemingly morose, lost in his thoughts about the painting. Jinx hummed a bouncy tune, stopped to pet a stray dog, sketched a pigeon that perched on a window ledge.

      
"Why are you so happy?" asked Dali at last.

      
"Why shouldn't I be?" she said. "It's a beautiful day, the sun is out, and I am finally getting used to this world, to the patterns of its streets and buildings, to the way every single person bears such a striking resemblance to every other person. You don't always find that in my world."

      
"I know," he said. "Perhaps that is why I prefer painting your world to my own."

      
"Have you come up with any ideas yet?"

      
"Either sixty-three or sixty-four, I lost count." He grimaced. "Each was worse than the last."

      
"Well, cheer up. It will come to you."

      
"I wish I had your confidence."

      
They walked another block, and suddenly she stopped humming.

      
"Oh, that's so sad!" she said.

      
"What is?" asked Dali distractedly.

      
She pointed to a small cat that lay dead in the street some forty yards ahead of them. "I think a car must have killed the poor thing. Probably it happened last night and the driver never saw it."

      
"Unless it happened today and the driver hated cats," shot back Dali, whose inability to solve his problem was making him argumentative.

      
"No," said Jinx with certainty as they walked closer to the cat. "It was killed last night."

      
"Let me guess," said Dali sarcastically. "You've read another mystery novel and you're practicing your detection."

      
She shook her head. "It's just common sense." She pointed to the cat. "It's covered by ants and flies. If it had just been killed, that many insects wouldn't have discovered it yet."

      
Dali stopped and stared at the cat for a long moment. Then he uttered a surprised laugh and thrust a fist triumphantly above his head.

      
"What a blessing you turned out to be!" he said happily.

      
"I don't understand."

      
"I need to suggest death and decay," he said, "but if I make the painting any bleaker people will turn away from it, you've convinced me of that.
But
," he added, "what if I have insects crawling across the faces of the watches? People are fascinated by them because they are as different from us as any living things can be. They are disgusted by them, too, because sooner or later everyone has seen insects doing exactly what they are doing to the remains of that cat. But if there is no life in the painting, that will mean Time has won, and what is left are the insects. They will have nothing to eat, so they will be crawling across the faces of the watches, just as they have crawled across the face of the world for hundreds of millions of years. Things come and things go, but they remain, the one constant among Nature's creations."

      
"I think it'll look creepy," offered Jinx.

      
"Yes, it will," agreed Dali. "But that will fascinate the viewer, rather than so depress him that he walks away."

      
"So that's the answer—insects?" said Jinx dubiously. "You're going to use dull colors to paint a bleak, barren landscape, a misshapen face, some limp watches, and some insects. And that's
it
?"

      
"It sounds terrible, doesn't it?" said Dali with a smile. He tapped his temple with a forefinger. "But when I see it in here, I know that it will be the greatest thing I have ever painted, maybe the greatest I ever
will
paint."

      
"You're sure?"

      
"I'm sure. And I owe it all to you and Freud."

      
"Before you go thanking anyone, perhaps you should paint it first and see if you're still pleased with it," suggested Jinx.

      
"The actual painting is the easy part," said Dali. "Trust me on this. This work will become the talk of the art world. It will secure my future as an artist."

      
"Just watches and insects and a face?"

      
"And a vision," he added. "
My
vision."

      
"What will you call it?"

      
"I expect you to vanish when I finish it—don't kick me! I haven't figured out how an imaginary girl manages to do that yet—but I shall be eternally grateful to you, and I will never forget you. And since the painting is about Time anyway, I will combine the two notions call it
The Persistence of Memory
."

      
"I like it," she said. "I wonder if anyone else will."

      
She had her answer a month later.

 

 

Chapter 12: The Persistence of Gala

12. The Persistence of Gala

 

      
The painting was an instant sensation. Critics of every type, no matter what their tastes, acknowledged it as a work of genius. Not all of them agreed on its meaning, and Dali, making the most of it, gave each a different interpretation when asked. It made no difference; he had moved from being a very good painter to being an acknowledged master with a single painting.