The Color of Light (27 page)

“Did I miss anything while I was away?”

“I don’t know if you heard out there in Prague, Lucian Swain and April Huffman broke up over the weekend.”

“Pity,” said Rafe, smiling slightly.

Levon lifted his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “We lost another teacher. Inga has been hired away by RISDI.”

That was a blow. Inga was the head of the drawing department. “She was so excited about what we’re doing. Did she say why?”

Levon shrugged. “Benefits. More money. Better connections. Looks grander on her resume. Take your pick.”

He sighed. Art teachers were a dime a dozen. Finding one with Inga’s inborn ability to draw like an Old Master…well, that was something else.

A gust of wind rattled the window, a draft penetrating the old sash, blowing a couple of typewritten pages across Levon’s desk.

“We should look at hiring one our graduating students,” he said, thinking of Gracie’s column of figures. “A number of them would fit the job description nicely.”

Levon grimaced. “You know Whit’s policy on hiring ex-students.”

“Yes, yes,” he said irritably. “I really should do something about that.”

They were both quiet for a minute. Reflexively, Levon straightened the objects on his desk, adjusting his stapler, Rolodex, memo pad, ruler and photographs of his children so that they were at right angles to each other.

“Oh, yeah,” Levon said. “Whit finally clued us in on who he picked for guest instructor over Intersession.”

Rafe drew closer, his eyebrows lifting. “And?”

“It’s Wylie Slaughter.”

A thunderstorm threatened to break across his even visage. “Slaughter? The progenitor of all those poorly-drawn saucy suburban housewives and school boys?”

Levon put his hands up in surrender. “I know. I know. What can I say? He’s another name brand artist. He says he loves what we’re doing here. He’ll attract lots of media attention, which is what we’re looking for. Also, I think it’s only fair to tell you, I kind of like those paintings of saucy suburban housewives.”

Rafe threw himself down in a chair. “Has anyone told the students?” he said gloomily.

Levon shook his head no. “Giselle is announcing it on Monday.” He pursed his lips, ran his fingers along the surface of the desk. “Listen. A monitor walked out on a class this morning.”

“Really,” said Rafe. “Whose class?”

He hesitated before continuing. “April Huffman.”

The strange eyes sharpened, held him. “What happened?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, as if it was sore. “Well…April’s been inappropriate. Abusing personal knowledge. It’s been an ongoing problem.”

“Personal? Like what?”

“Well…she told the entire class that the monitor is a virgin.”

Rafe unfolded himself from his chair, got slowly to his feet. “Is Tessa all right?”

“She walked out at the break. Hasn’t been seen since. Left her paints and everything. Some of her friends were going to check up on her.”

With one gorgeous motion, a fluid sweep of his arm, Rafe settled his hat back on his head. There was a murderous gleam in his eye.

“I’m just on my way out,” said Levon. “Do you mind handing me my cane?”

“That’s new. Everything all right?” There was a knobbly, walnut-colored walking stick in the umbrella stand. He handed it across the desk to Levon, who was already on his feet, pulling on his coat.

“Oh, yeah. Fine. Old sports injury’s been acting up. I ought to see a doctor about it, but you know how that goes.”

“Track, wasn’t it?”

“You remember. I’m touched. The joys of getting old. Well, I guess it’s better than the alternative.” He shut the lights and closed the door behind them. The two men walked down the semi-darkened hallway, plaster busts of Roman emperors glowering at them in the gloom from behind blank eyes.

“How long has this been going on?” Rafe said.

“Since her very first day,” he admitted grudgingly. “April’s been whispering in her ear all kinds of nasty about whatever it is she does with Lucian Swain, sending her out of the building on all sorts of errands that have nothing to do with lights and heaters. I said something to her, but… well, you can see how well that worked.”

They took the elevator. On the sidewalk below, a biting wind blew a tumbling newspaper against Levon’s legs as he put his arm out to flag down a taxi. “Where are you headed?” he said as a yellow cab screeched to a stop beside them.

“Holiday party for
Anastasia,”
Rafe said, looking at his watch. “I should be getting over there now.”

“I still remember reading about those naked waiters. What’s she got planned this time?”

He smiled faintly. “All I know is that it’s at the Convent of the Sacred Heart.”

“Ooh,” said Levon, from the warm interior of the taxi. “Sounds naughty. I’ll be looking forward to hearing about that. Can I offer you a ride?”

“No, thank you. Look after that leg, will you?”

He shut the door on the cab. It wheeled back into traffic. He pulled his collar up around his neck, pulled the brim of his hat down against the cold and started striding purposefully uptown.

All his instincts told him that he should head straight for wherever it was that April lived and tear her throat out. The thought of Tessa showing up for class every Friday to be tormented by one of his teachers made him physically ill. He felt responsible; after all, his signature was at the bottom of every one of April’s paychecks.

He turned up Broadway, gliding past the Gothic spires of Grace Church on 10th Street. Though Tessa had not held the answers to his questions,
though she had not proved to be the direct link to Sofia that he had hoped for and dreaded, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was always on his mind, drifting in and out like background music. His thoughts returned to her again and again, caressing the memory of their moments together like a smooth beach stone some men might carry in their pocket to remind them of a pleasant vacation.

Prague had been strangely cheerful, vibrant, a medieval town come to bustling life. Light and music spilling out of café doors. Drunken Scandinavian students with steins of beer. Sleek, dark-haired girls with portfolios under their arms hurrying to meet lovers in Old Town Square. The last time he’d been there, he’d purchased a Klimt from a furtive little man who was selling all his earthly possessions for next to nothing so that he could get himself and his family out of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia.

He turned onto Sixth Avenue, the cold wind hustling him forward. Now his mind turned to the information Levon had given him. So Lucian Swain had broken up with April Huffman. Rafe didn’t give a blessed damn. All it meant was that Lucian was back on the prowl again, looking for that next special girl, at a guest lecture, or a restaurant, or a club, or a meeting, but to Tessa, sweet, trusting, faithful Tessa, it would mean that he was coming back to her. And knowing Lucian, he would not be averse to letting her have another taste of his charms, his much vaunted and much practiced talents, to keep her trailing in his wake a little while longer.

He tried to tell himself that she was just another student, well off bounds and entitled to her own mistakes, but it was useless, he felt the muscles in his jaw swelling, the fangs breaking through the gums and descending. Something was changing in his eyes, too; he could feel his pupils dilating, his vision growing more acute.

He was crossing Herald Square now. Macy’s windows had been changed over to cheerful tableaus of merry Victorian winter scenes. Christmas shoppers laden with shiny red bags hurried along the wide promenades of Thirty-fourth Street and Broadway. Rafe stalked through the throngs, causing a dozen women to move aside with a little gasp, the hair along the back of their necks prickling straight up.

At the garment district, he slowed. The crowd was thinner here, the lights dimmer, the skyscrapers older, the streets dirtier. His eyes raked east
and west, searching out women lingering in subway exits or alone at bus stops, waiting for the right aura to strike him as he swept past.

There.
A woman sat in a gray Toyota, parked halfway up Thirty-eighth Street, turning the key again and again on an engine that would not start. The buttons and trimmings stores were all closed now, their gates and shutters locked down for the night. He could feel her desperation grow as she sat there wondering what to do; how to get home, where to find someone to tow the car, what her husband would say. Her fear at being alone, stranded on this little-traveled street at night.

The door squealed as she emerged cautiously from the safety of her car. She was peering fearfully towards Broadway, hoping to spot a phone booth. Rafe glided soundlessly alongside her.

He smelled wool and sweat, a dimestore imitation of Chanel No. 5. Gently, so gently she almost didn’t notice it, he swept the hair away from her neck. By the time she heeled around, choked out an exclamation, he was ready. He drove his fangs into her throat.

She gasped, struggled, made noise. He clapped his hand over her mouth and dragged her into a lightless loading dock between the buildings.

Pinning her against a sign that advertised ribbons of all colors and widths, to the trade only, please, he sucked voraciously at the jagged hole he’d ripped in her flesh. She tore at him with her nails, but he just forced himself harder against her, hearing bones crack. It made no difference to him; he grew warmer, more alive, by the minute.

Her body began to slide through his arms. Insatiable, he held on, fastened his teeth in a new place. He caught her just as her legs gave out, lowering her onto a bundle of flattened cardboard boxes.

Whatever had made her human was gone; it was like looking at a broken department store mannequin. Her blouse was open, hiked up, and her skirt was twisted round the wrong way. One of her shoes had fallen off and was lying at some distance, kicked there during the struggle. Her eyes were partly open, staring at him.

A police car squealed down the avenue,
whee-oo, whee-ooh, whee-ooh
. He searched his pockets for a cigarette, put it between his lips, doubled over with dry heaves. And then he sprinted down the street toward Broadway.

The next day, Page Six would report breathlessly on the decaying limestone beauty of the old Otto Kahn mansion, the marble floors and coffered ceiling of the ballroom, the cherubs carved in the rococo moldings, the red velvet banisters and the stained glass skylight. They would mention the hard-bodied waiters, naked but for little white wings and glittering white thongs, their trays of chicken satay skewers held aloft. There would be a photograph of a smiling Anastasia deCroix wearing a stunning silk satin halter-top gown made for her by her good friend Gianni Versace, ruched enthusiastically up past her hips, shirred provocatively over her breasts.

When the students in Harvey Glaser’s sculpture class looked closely at Graham’s paper on Monday, they could see Raphael Sinclair, looking preoccupied, standing in the background behind her.

20

A
ll day Monday, Tessa drew curious stares. Every man in the lounge, every teacher, every student, seemed to turn around to look at her, to judge her, to undress her with their eyes as she walked by.

By Tuesday, no one gave her a second glance.

“How?” Portia had asked on Friday night, bewildered. “You’ve been with Lucian Swain. I just assumed…how did you two…” she lapsed into silence, too discreet to finish the sentence.

Tessa raised guilty eyes to her. “There are things you can do,” she said, a little abashed, a little defensive. “Lots of things.”

“Why, Tessa?” asked Gracie, mystified. “That’s what I want to know.
Why
are you still a virgin?”

Of all people, it was Clayton who came to her rescue. “Cause she’s religious,” he explained patiently.

She considered unburdening herself to Levon about April’s unrelenting barrage of harassment. In the end, she left things as they were. She had won, after all; Lucian was hers; April was just hurt and jealous, and the semester was almost over, anyway.

If Tessa had hoped for a resumption of the time when she and Lucian had spent every waking moment together holding hands, she was disappointed. Life went on as it had before, which meant days spent in class, evenings spent working in the studio. Sometimes he was there, sometimes he was absent, off at AA meetings while she scraped away on his giant canvases or straightened up the apartment. He had not asked her to stay over since the night she had returned from Chicago.

Christmas vacation drew nearer, and with it, the month long Intersession. The special guest instructor was announced, Wylie Slaughter, a painter famous for his shocking scenes of schoolboys being seduced by women twice their age. Tessa had met him once, out for lunch with Lucian.

In infrequent phone calls, her mother reported that Zaydie was better, back in his own home. They had installed a new adjustable hospitable bed, and there was a nurse looking after him around the clock. He tired easily, sleeping frequently, his rest interrupted by wild dreams.

Tessa struggled with her guilt. After all, she alone had been responsible for his illness. She tried to push it away, burying her fears under the mountain of work due before the end of the fall semester. Most worrisome of all was a complicated project for Whit’s Perspective class that involved multiple figures and structures seen from three different angles, including but not restricted to a cone, a sphere, a cube, and a pyramid, gridded out in an architectural elevation map, then rendered with appropriate lights and shadows. It counted for a third of her grade.

Clayton never brought up the photograph. Perhaps he didn’t know who was in it; perhaps he had more tact than she gave him credit for. More disturbingly, perhaps he thought it was her. In any case, Tessa was so embarrassed that she couldn’t ask for it back.

By the end of the week, she had not seen Raphael Sinclair outside of the society column in the
Post.
She found that she missed his unexpected visits, his gifts, the notes he left in his flowery handwriting on heavy laid paper. Perhaps his infatuation with her had ended. Though her feelings were wrapped up with Lucian, she still noticed, and regretted the loss.