The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (33 page)

"And the second?" I asked, with a feeling of dread.

"A younger man, perhaps your age, with a mustache. He seemed rather annoyed when I told him I

could divulge neither your room number nor your where-abouts."

"Listen carefully," I told him. "If the younger man returns, do not accept anything from him. Tell the rest of the staff too. He might be dangerous."

That night I slept uneasily, knowing that Charbuque was in town, expecting him to emerge from the shadows of my room at any minute. I also wondered why Watkin was looking for me and why he had not left a message. My thoughts turned to the portrait, and I resolved to take steps to protect it while I

was away from it.

The next morning I left my bed even earlier than usual and went out into the cold predawn air. I cannot describe my relief upon reaching the carriage house studio and finding the painting exactly as I had

left it the previous night. That morning, while we shared our morning coffee, I asked Father Loomis if he would store the piece in the church at night. He was more than happy to comply and told me I could hide it behind the altar each night before taking my leave. That evening as we sat having our wine, he told me he was thinking of having an altarpiece painted depicting stories from the Bible. "A beautiful backdrop to the Mass" was how he put it. We discussed what subject matter would be appropriate. He was leaning toward the story of Jonah, but I told him he should choose a scene from Genesis, because creation was the only proof of God's existence in the world. He shook his head, called me a heathen, and refilled my glass.

That night on my return to the inn there were neither messages nor tales of visitors to distress me. I

slept soundly with no interruptions. But the next morning, after starting the fire in the studio, I came to the church to retrieve the portrait and to my horror found that it was missing.

"Loomis!" I yelled.

"Easy, Piambo," I heard behind me.

I turned and saw the priest standing in his robe, hold-ing the picture.

"What are you doing, Father?" I asked.

"Well, my son, last night there was a visitor to your studio. I woke sometime after two and heard a voice com-ing from the carriage house. I loaded my shotgun and went out back there to see what was about. There was no light other than the moon, but I could make out a shad-owy form pacing back and forth in your studio. Whoever this intruder was, he was wild with anger, cursing like the devil. I aimed the shotgun in the air and fired, and he took off into the trees. I yelled that I was going to summon the police.

I realized he must be looking for the painting, and so when I returned to the church I took it from behind the altar and hid it under my covers with me to protect it. Of course, the gun lay on the other side of me."

"I can't thank you enough," I said to him.

"It was nothing," he said. "Just don't tell anyone I spent the night with a naked woman in my bed."

"I'll take the painting with me when I leave tonight," I said. "I don't want to put you in any danger."

"Nonsense," said Loomis. "I'll keep it safe here for you. I don't usually like to lock the doors, but once they are secured, one would need a battering ram to force them open. It will be safer here than at the inn."

I reluctantly agreed, knowing Charbuque was as slip-pery a character as the Boon Companion in his wife's incongruous story, but the priest had made a good point and seemed honestly committed to the task.

The night of the fourth day, upon returning to the inn, I sat down and wrote two letters. One was to

Sills, alerting him that Charbuque was no longer in the city but now roaming around Long Island. I wrote the second letter to Samantha and told her where I was and the whole story of my stay on the south shore. I told her I loved her, and asked her to come back to me. I wrote that if I did not hear from her, I

might stay on to paint land-scapes for a time.

On the morning of the sixth day of my final week in the orbit of Mrs. Charbuque, I finished the painting. One last brush stroke to adjust the expression at the corner of the lips, and then I stood back, realizing it needed nothing more. I lay the brush and palette down on the small table and staggered back to sit on the cot. She was exactly the way I had pictured her in my mind. The sight of it, the sense of completion, brought me to tears. It was by far the best painting I had ever made. Now that it was finished, I felt empty. I had worked so diligently for so long; the abrupt cessation disconcerted me.

I varnished the canvas, only once, to bring out the glow of the solitary figure without making the surface reflec-tive. After completing this last step, I lay down on the cot and slept for the remainder of the day. That night I did not return to the La Grange but stoked the fire in the studio and stayed there, standing guard until morning.

Finally, after a night spent staring into the fireplace, conjuring ghosts and scenes of my past in the flames and watching them dance about in the hearth like moving fig-ures on a magical painting, I saw the sun show itself. The portrait was dry enough. I put it in a cheap frame I had bought in town, and wrapped it in paper. After the paper, I wrapped it again in oilskin to protect it from the weather and tied the whole package securely with twine.

I then returned to the inn, ate breakfast with the pack-age sitting next to me in the dining room, and afterward went to my room to rest for an hour or two. At noon I arose, put on my coat and hat, and went down to arrange for a carriage to take me to the docks. While I was stand-ing in the lobby waiting for my ride, I happened to notice a copy of the late edition of the Babylon Gazette lying on the counter.

The headline fairly screamed at me: LOCAL WOMAN DIES, CRYING TEARS OF BLOOD.

Beneath that, in slightly smaller type, ran: mysterious disease PLAGUING NEW YORK CITY

STRIKES LONG ISLAND.

At that moment my ride pulled up. Before I could get into the conveyance and be on my way, I was shivering uncontrollably with the realization that Charbuque had begun his game again.

What was more distressing was the thought that it was I who had forced his hand.

Phantasm in the Flesh

When I arrived at the dock the ferry was there, but I was told that there was some engine trouble and it would be a while before they got it up to snuff. I was directed to a nearby establishment, a shack whose sign said The Copper Kettle. It was only a two-minute walk back up the road to the bay, and I

was assured that some-one would fetch me when things were in order. I was peeved, to say the least, anxious to put an end to the affair, but I had no choice. As I walked to the tavern, I noticed that the sky was growing overcast and the air smelled of impending snow.

I spent much of the afternoon nursing a whiskey in that hovel. To be fair, the old fishermen and clammers who were the place's regular patrons were a good bunch. They looked and sounded like a gaggle of pirates, bearing scars and tattoos and using foul language, but they treated me kindly and told me many tales about the history and lore of the bay. When I informed them I was
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a painter and on my way to deliver a portrait to a patron, they laughed as if this was the funniest thing in the world. Finally a lad came to the Kettle to fetch me. I shook hands all around and thanked them for their hospitality.

I hadn't realized how late it was until I stepped out of the tavern and saw that the sun was already well on the wane. I hurried along the dock and boarded the boat. There were no other passengers, but the ferry captain seemed more than happy to take me across. The water was choppy, and the skies were heavy with dark clouds save for a sliver of red at the horizon. I stood on the deck with the mate as we made the crossing. He took out a small spy-glass with which he showed me the different sights back onshore. "It's blowing up pretty good now," he said to me above the wind. "You can see the clammers heading in."

I took the glass from him and turned it on the boats making for the dock at Babylon. I noticed a small skiff with only two people in it. I could barely believe my eyes, but I was looking at Watkin. A

young man was rowing, and the old fellow was sitting facing the pilot. "Perhaps he is coming to fetch me or tell me that if I am not finished, the commission is canceled," I thought.

Although the sun had not yet set, the sky was so over-cast it might as well have. It was early night as

I left the basin at Captree Island and, portrait under my arm, headed east over the dunes toward the summerhouse of Mrs. Charbuque. As I crested the last dune and looked down into the valley of sand that hid the house, I was struck by how different the same place could feel depend-ing upon the circumstances. Gone was the warm feeling of tranquillity I had felt when visiting during the daylight hours, for now the house appeared dark and forbidding. I saw no light from where I stood, and the tin chimes on the porch were ringing with an insistence that might wake the dead.

I descended the dune and made my way up the stone path to the porch. Drawing closer, I saw that the door had been left somewhat ajar.

The dark house and the open door made me nervous, reminding me of my discovery when Luciere had fled the city. I prayed she was not gone again. Although the situa-tion alarmed me, my desire to deliver the portrait was even greater. I would not be denied my opportunity to ful-fill the commission. I

went up the steps and knocked on the doorframe. No one came, and I heard no sound from inside the house. The wind was blowing rather wildly now outside the valley of dunes, and it was difficult to hear above its keening.

"Oh, hell," I said, and stepped into the house. The floorboards creaked mercilessly as I advanced one step at a time, trying to remember the layout of the place from my previous visit. The rooms were draped in thick shadow. I called out, "Luciere." When I got no response, I felt my way along the walls and around furniture to our meeting room at the back of the house. By the time I reached the door, I was quaking like a child, not even completely aware of what it was that had me so frightened.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when I saw a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. "She is waiting for me," I comforted myself, "but cannot hear my call because of the wind." Standing for a moment outside her den, I gathered myself together and then opened the door and stepped inside. The scene I had grown so used to—the screen, the solitary chair—was made lurid by the addition of an oil lamp on the floor beneath the left-hand window. Its guttering glow cast long shadows upon the wall and ceiling.

"I've come with the portrait," I said.

I heard rustling behind the screen and the sound of her chair creaking.

"I hope you will be pleased," I said, and set to undoing, with my penknife, the wraps that held the painting. When it was free, I walked forward and lifted it up over the top of the screen. I was reassured when I felt another pair of hands take the weight from mine. With a tempest of
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butterflies swarming in my solar plexus, a sense of antic-ipation that could have cut a diamond, I sat down in my chair and waited.

"I saw Watkin making the crossing to town," I said, unable to contain my nervousness.

She sighed.

I did not know whether to take this as a response to my statement or a critique of my work. My answer came a few long minutes later when something flew over the top of the screen and landed on the floor at my feet. I looked at it before retrieving it; a monumental stack of cash tied up with string. I

grabbed it up and began counting. Not only was it a huge number of bills, but the denominations were staggering. My thumb flipped their corners three times, and I gloated with each pass.

"Luciere," I said, "does this mean I have done it?"

I waited, and then saw a black-gloved hand grab the side of the screen. The seemingly immovable barrier was violently cast aside with the ease of a leaf being buffeted by a November gale. It happened so quickly, I could barely follow. But before the thing had crashed to the floor, I knew I was looking directly at Moret Charbuque.

"Yes, Piambo," he said. "You've certainly done it and done it for the last time." He held a gun in his gloved hand. I could not move, but still I was curious to see this phantasm in the flesh. He was a man of somewhat younger years than myself, with refined features, a mus-tache, and long locks that fell to his collar in back. He was dressed in a black jacket and black trousers, and his white shirt was opened at the top.

"What have you done with your wife?" I managed to ask.

"Let us just say, she will not be returning," he said, and smiled.

"I'll be going, then," I said.

He leveled the gun at me and laughed. "I'm afraid you will not be returning either," he said.

"I thought you were unable to approach your wife," I said. "How did the game change?"

"I knew all along that you were seeing her. You were making love to her. And the painting proves it.

She broke the rules. She gave in to infidelity, and that, my friend, gives me license to seek revenge."

"But you haven't seen the painting until now," I said.

"Sorry, Piambo. I saw it in the church. When that old fool of a priest came out to fire his shotgun, I

doubled back and went inside. I'd seen you place it behind the altar ear-lier. All I needed was a quick look at it, and I was off before the priest returned to the church. And that showed me the truth."

"I swear to you, I have never laid eyes upon your wife," I said.

"Come, come," he said. "In any event, you have your commission, and a little something extra along with it."

"A bullet?" I asked.

"Those bills have been doused with the Tears of Carthage. Before too long your remorse at having treated me so shoddily will give way to tears. You will cry blood for me, Piambo."

This revelation made me instantly frantic, and in rapid succession I saw in my mind's eye the victim I

had dis-covered in the alleyway and Shenz, weeping his life away, I lashed out in fear and anger.