The Secret of Lions (3 page)

6

Sitting on a bench in Chetwynd Court near a
series of beautiful gardens, Barbara looked over her sketches. She
should’ve been focusing on what her thesis was going to be about.
So far, she had no idea. She knew that she had to start her thesis
as soon as possible because her stipend depended on it. She had to
announce her thesis topic to her academic committee by the end of
her first semester. And the first semester was already moving
along. It was the fourth week of school, and things were only
accelerating. It seemed like there was no stopping the coursework;
it continued to pile up.

She had papers due on French Impressionists,
on famous artists such as Monet, Da Vinci, and many others. Already
she was stressed about her course load. She spent the entire night
staring at the ceiling. She felt too overwhelmed to sleep.

The department had not given her a key or a
carrel in the graduate studio yet. Of course, she was not sure that
she was entitled to a key, not this soon. So she had to work out of
her dorm room or outside on the college grounds. Since she’d found
nothing worth painting cooped up in her dorm and no inspiration,
she worked outside as much as possible.

Besides, her roommate was constantly
gibbering about a new boy she’d found. And even when she was
asleep, she was loud, snoring throughout the night. So that didn’t
help Barbara’s sleeping. The only real time that Barbara could get
any rest was when her roommate, Lucy, was out committing torrid
acts with one of her numerous boyfriends.

“I’m going out to commit torrid and
unspeakable acts tonight. Don’t wait up,” Lucy would say.

“Okay, Lucy,” Barbara would answer as Lucy
rushed out of the door.

Trying to forget about Lucy and her
coursework for the moment, Barbara blew a strand of dark hair away
from her face. She looked around at the scene in front of her. She
drew the gardens with the buildings as the backdrop. The details
were missing, but she had a good blueprint, a sketch of the life in
front of her. She tried to insert some of the students, but they
scurried about too quickly. A small group of them stood near the
far corner of the library. They played some obscure game that
Barbara had no understanding of. It involved double hand-sized
ball. She really did not understand the concept. They kicked it
about without letting it touch the ground. It looked fun enough.
They laughed every time someone dropped it.

Suddenly, Barbara realized that someone was
watching her from a distance. She turned for a moment and looked
over to the garden behind her. Evan was watering the plants. He
wore a hooded, blue jacket. The hood shrouded his face. His eyes
were hidden beneath a thick shadow cast by the cowl. Barbara
noticed that he wasn’t aiming the spout of his watering can. Water
sprayed out all over the cobblestone sidewalk. Evan was staring at
her, gazing in a boyish way.

Slightly creepy,
she thought.
But
still boyish.

She felt their attraction as if they knew
the moment they met there was something powerful between them. It
was a rare moment in life, one that surpassed all other
moments.

Realizing that she’d caught him, Evan spun
around and abandoned his stare. He returned to overlooking the
garden. After a moment, he looked back at her, only briefly. She
continued, unwavering in her gaze at him. Boldly, she waved. He
stopped cold. Unsure of himself, he waved back.

She smiled.

7

Barbara had only met Professor Charles Blake
briefly during her orientation with a small group of graduate
students. She was the only female.

Her first impressions of him were that he
was a man of strong build and very tall. He was in his mid-forties,
but carried himself as if he were fifteen years younger. His face
was handsome, yet plain. He had a British accent that seemed
flawless. His hair was short and perfectly groomed. He had a quiet
presence about him. He was new to the campus; he’d only been a
professor at King’s College for a semester. Some of the other
faculty often confused his name. Barbara guessed that he was still
making friends with them.

It was Monday. She sat in his class called
“The Mysteries of Art,” a 600-level course. She was excited about
this particular class; it sounded intriguing. The class focused on
mysteries involving different works of art such as Mona Lisa’s
smile or why the screamer is screaming in
The Scream
or why
did Van Gogh cut off his ear?

“Class, the next painting we are going to
look at is one of my favorite mysteries,” Professor Blake said. He
turned a knob on the side of a large, metal projector. Swiftly, the
projector hummed and the slide on the blank, white wall changed. A
painting appeared that would change Barbara’s life forever.

“
The Secret of Lions
,” Professor
Blake said. “This painting is hanging right now in our art gallery
on the first floor, past the spiral staircase, near the back.”

Barbara stared at it in amazement. It
portrayed a majestic, black lion overlooking grand cliffs. It
looked magnificent. She could not stop studying the design and
style of this masterpiece. It captivated her unlike any other piece
of art that she had ever seen before.

“Notice how realistic The Secret looks. It
is incredible. It depicts so much violence and turmoil. Can anyone
tell me what the secret is?”

“The secret is secret. That represents
darkness,” Bill Jeffers said.

“Not quite, Mr. Jeffers, but thanks for the
depth of your answer,” Professor Blake said. Some of the class
laughed. “Seriously, take a good look at the painting and think
about it.”

Barbara raised her hand.

“Miss Howard, go ahead.” Professor Blake
noticed Barbara’s beauty more than he was actually waiting for an
answer.

“It’s because it’s a black lion. Black lions
don’t exist, but this one does and he looks ferocious. However,
usually dangerous animals are normally more fearful than they are
tough,” Barbara said.

“Good. Good answer. Except that black lions
do exist. They are a rarity, but they are possible,” Professor
Blake said, clearing his throat.

“They can be fully colored black like that,
Professor?” another student asked.

“Usually, the black lion refers to a lion
with a black mane, but yes there are stories of lions that are
black, like a white panther or tiger. I believe that the only one
ever to exist in captivity was in Germany some years ago,”
Professor Blake said.

“I have another question, Professor Blake,”
Barbara said.

“You are persistent, Miss Howard.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry,” she said.

“Especially for this early in the semester,”
he said.

“I was wondering what the name means. Is
there a larger secret somewhere in the painting?”

“Good question, Miss Howard. I suppose you
have really never seen this painting then. Most students who come
here are already familiar with this work—as are the faculty. You
see, this painting is perhaps the biggest mystery that we will talk
about all semester. It is our opus, our great mystery.”

Professor Blake moved closer to the
projection of the painting. He was now standing between the
projector and the image on the wall. His glasses reflected the
light from the projector as he turned back to the class. The
painting was blurred behind the muscular outline of his body.

“Several months ago this painting surfaced.
It just appeared in the art gallery here on campus. Are you
familiar with Adolf Hitler? Miss Howard?”

“Of course,” Barbara answered.

“What did Hitler have the Nazis do to most
art pieces that were in their possession? You know, the ones that
were not pro-Reich?”

“They were destroyed. Burned in public fires
along with books,” Barbara said.

“Take a look at the next slide,” Professor
Blake said. With one turn of the knob, the image on the wall
quickly shifted to one of Adolf Hitler standing in front of a
fireplace. Behind him, draped from the mantle of the fireplace,
hung two cloths with Nazi swastikas waving freely. “Look above the
fireplace, Miss Howard.”

Behind Hitler, above the fireplace, rested
the painting—
The Secret of Lions
.

“This picture is taken from Hitler’s private
study from one of his homes. It is said that it was his most prized
piece of art,” Professor Blake said. “Although, it was thought to
have been lost. Not that long ago, it was anonymously donated to
the university. And no one knows by whom. One day it was just lost
and the next it was here.

“Amazing. Isn’t it? A painting in the
possession of Hitler, lost, and now in our possession.”

“What a flit!” a student from the back
retorted. Giggling broke out among the class, everyone except for
Barbara. She was still mesmerized by the beauty of the
painting.

“That’s enough, class. In fact, that is all
for today. See all of you Wednesday morning,” Professor Blake
said.

After class, Barbara approached Professor
Blake. She hounded him about the painting without realizing it.

“So no one is sure who the artist is?” she
asked.

“No one knows who painted it or why,” said
Professor Blake.

Barbara was astonished to hear this.

“No one knows?” she repeated.

“Miss Howard, scholars have
investigated––prominent scholars. Modern artists came from all over
the world to look at the painting. Many of them even claimed it as
one of their own. No one knows who really painted it. The painting
is a mystery in the true sense. There is a set of initials on the
bottom, but no one knows to whom they belong. The initials are U.S.
which could be anyone. Could mean that the artist is an American,
as in they stand for the United States. Could mean that his first
name is Ulysses. We really don’t know,” Professor Blake said.

“So the secret is the identity of the
artist?” Barbara asked. The professor seemed openly annoyed at her
inquisition. That is when Barbara noticed that he was staring at a
foreign-looking man standing in the doorway. The man looked as
though he were expecting Professor Blake.

“What is the secret, Miss Howard?” Professor
Blake asked. He gathered up the rest of his belongings and headed
toward the door, hoping to avoid further conversation.

Barbara shook her head. She now had a topic
for her thesis.

8

Lucy and Barbara walked to the art gallery.
Barbara wanted desperately to see the painting. And she wanted Lucy
to take her. As they walked, Lucy talked about things other than
art.

“Barbara, do you like boys? I mean are you a
lesbian? My sisters think that you’re a lesbian,” Lucy said.

Barbara found herself staring at Lucy’s top
while her sexuality was being questioned. Unfortunately, Barbara
was only wondering how tight Lucy’s top was. It was hard not to
look at Lucy’s chest. She was skinny, not as skinny as Barbara, but
thin. Her bust was quite large and perky for a thin woman. Barbara
was slightly jealous.

“Lucy, of course I’m a lesbian. That’s why I
can think of nothing better than clamping down on your...” Barbara
said, jokingly. She started giggling.

“Barbara, if you’re not going to take me
seriously then you can go look at your stupid painting alone. Maybe
Professor Blake will keep you company,” Lucy said, playfully poking
at Barbara’s sensitivity.

“Okay, I'm sorry, Lucy. Why are you asking
me about my preference of sex?”

“Okay!” Lucy said. Suddenly, her eyes filled
with excitement, and she stopped Barbara’s march to the art
gallery. “As you realize, this school doesn’t have a large female
populace.”

“I noticed,” Barbara said.

“The sisters of my sorority were asking
about you.”

“So?” Barbara said.

“So? So?” Lucy repeated her.

“Lucy, what do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

Barbara rolled her eyes.

“Forget it. Let me tell you what my mother
used to say when she was very furious with me. ‘What the fuck are
you trying to say?’ ” Barbara said. A smile came across her face as
she thought of how sprightly her mother used to be.

“God, Barbara. Your mouth is not very
ladylike. I guess American boys like that sort of talk.”

“Lucy, get to it,” Barbara said.

“My sorority sisters are asking me about you
because they are considering you for rush!”

“
Oh no,”
Barbara said. “No. No.
I don’t do sororities, knitting and
bake sales.”

“Come on, Barbara,” Lucy said. “It’s not all
like that. We do lesbian stuff too.”

Both of the girls giggled.

“Seriously, Barbara. It looks good on your
transcripts, and you will make friends for life. It’s not like
you’ve made a lot here.”

“I have friends, Lucy.”

“You have classmates, not friends,” Lucy
said.

They began walking toward the art gallery
again.

“So you have friends? Like who?” Lucy
asked.

“I have you,” Barbara answered.

“I'm your roommate; we are assigned
together. Who else do you know?” Lucy asked.

Barbara shrugged.

“Hmm, no girls, I see. What about boys?”
Lucy asked.

“I met a boy,” Barbara said.

“You met a boy? When? Where?”

“When I first moved here. Near one of the
gardens.”

“Who?”

“Just a boy. He was very mysterious.”

“Mysterious? What is this mystery guy’s
name?” Lucy asked.

“Evan.”

“Evan? Evan? Wait. You mean the
groundskeeper?”

“Yeah. So what’s wrong with him?”

“Barbara? He isn’t mysterious. He’s weird.
I’m going to tell the sisters to rush you. At least they’re a bunch
of sexy girls. Maybe we can just turn you into a lesbian and wash
you of this Evan nonsense,” Lucy said. Both girls started chuckling
as they opened the doors to the art gallery.