towards her paintings. I reach with my own finger and touch the surface. I watched Emily applying the paint, meticulous, using a brush with a single hair of sable for the very fine details, the lashes, the flare in the eye, the large pores at the side of the nose, the fine hairs spilling over the hooves.
I take the stairs slowly, I am unsteady even without my high heels. The floor of the studio is cold and I wish now I had changed into some slippers. The spilt paint spikes up into the tender underside of my toes. There are paintings half-finished, leaning against the walls. A large close-up of an eye, part of an ear, the edge of a mouth, lips slightly parted as if to kiss or to shriek. It would have made it into the exhibition, this large work, if I had had two more days, three at the most. Maybe this one painting would have changed the whole thing, made everything better. Maybe if this canvas were hanging in the gallery now, John would be here beside me.
I wear the key around my neck at all times. It is old and looks decorative. I like the shape and weight of it.
What does that open?
I remember him picking it up off my chest, the end of it grazing against my nipple. I remember him kissing the flesh there as if in apology, the kiss opening to the wetness of his tongue, the pleasure of my skin entering his mouth.
My heart, I told him, and he pressed his hand against mine which was wildly beating in my chest.
Then you should give it to me.
If you want my heart you will have to work for it.
I pull the key up and over my head. It sits in the palm of my hand, heavy as history.
The paintings are a solid weight against my thighs but I am used to the lean of them settling into my lap. Behind them there is a small door, a low cupboard, a lock. I fit the key into it and turn it.
Bluebeard kept the bodies of the women he had killed: I remember the terrible heart of his story. When our Oma told us his secret, Emilyâs eyes gleamed but I was scared witless.
Here is my terrible heart. I pull the canvases out one by one. I study the colour and shape, the technique. I hold up a canvas that is almost an Emily Reich. I know how to make the light come from one direction, head on, giving a startling starkness to the figure there. I know how to make the feathers slip over into flesh, the arms disappearing into fur, the wool morphing into the curls on a babyâs head. I know how she does it because I have spent hours watching her do it, hours doing it myself. Like an insect hiding itself in the form of a leaf, my paintings are almost indistinguishable from the original Emily Reichs upstairs hanging on the wall.
I count these canvases, adding them up in half-million units. A hidden fortune in forgeries, I suppose. I know the signature is perfect. When I was a child she sometimes made me sign her paintings for her and I did it laughing, knowing that it was wrong, insisting she sign my own paintings too. You couldnât tell the difference between Emilyâs signature and mine. I wonder if that painting at Sothebyâs carried my makerâs stamp on her work.
I stop at a painting of a man who is a bird, anchored to a branch with a length of razor wire. I donât remember painting this one at all. Perhaps this is an actual Emily Reich, hidden down here with all my fake Emilys by accident.
I pull the painting out and rest it against the wall. Maybe I have just forgotten. I should hang it upstairs with all my sisterâs true work. I pause just before locking the door, open it, put the painting back into the alcove. There is a chance that it is one of mine after all. I have a vague memory of realising that feathers need a steady hand, making one tiny line overlap another till the lines become feathery. Maybe I painted it early in my Emily Reich period, when it was impossible for me to see where Bec ended and Emily began.
I lock the cupboard and pile my own worthless canvases in front of the door. I hang the key around
I take the stairs slowly, I am unsteady even without my high heels. The floor of the studio is cold and I wish now I had changed into some slippers. The spilt paint spikes up into the tender underside of my toes. There are paintings half-finished, leaning against the walls. A large close-up of an eye, part of an ear, the edge of a mouth, lips slightly parted as if to kiss or to shriek. It would have made it into the exhibition, this large work, if I had had two more days, three at the most. Maybe this one painting would have changed the whole thing, made everything better. Maybe if this canvas were hanging in the gallery now, John would be here beside me.
I wear the key around my neck at all times. It is old and looks decorative. I like the shape and weight of it.
What does that open?
I remember him picking it up off my chest, the end of it grazing against my nipple. I remember him kissing the flesh there as if in apology, the kiss opening to the wetness of his tongue, the pleasure of my skin entering his mouth.
My heart, I told him, and he pressed his hand against mine which was wildly beating in my chest.
Then you should give it to me.
If you want my heart you will have to work for it.
I pull the key up and over my head. It sits in the palm of my hand, heavy as history.
The paintings are a solid weight against my thighs but I am used to the lean of them settling into my lap. Behind them there is a small door, a low cupboard, a lock. I fit the key into it and turn it.
Bluebeard kept the bodies of the women he had killed: I remember the terrible heart of his story. When our Oma told us his secret, Emilyâs eyes gleamed but I was scared witless.
Here is my terrible heart. I pull the canvases out one by one. I study the colour and shape, the technique. I hold up a canvas that is almost an Emily Reich. I know how to make the light come from one direction, head on, giving a startling starkness to the figure there. I know how to make the feathers slip over into flesh, the arms disappearing into fur, the wool morphing into the curls on a babyâs head. I know how she does it because I have spent hours watching her do it, hours doing it myself. Like an insect hiding itself in the form of a leaf, my paintings are almost indistinguishable from the original Emily Reichs upstairs hanging on the wall.
I count these canvases, adding them up in half-million units. A hidden fortune in forgeries, I suppose. I know the signature is perfect. When I was a child she sometimes made me sign her paintings for her and I did it laughing, knowing that it was wrong, insisting she sign my own paintings too. You couldnât tell the difference between Emilyâs signature and mine. I wonder if that painting at Sothebyâs carried my makerâs stamp on her work.
I stop at a painting of a man who is a bird, anchored to a branch with a length of razor wire. I donât remember painting this one at all. Perhaps this is an actual Emily Reich, hidden down here with all my fake Emilys by accident.
I pull the painting out and rest it against the wall. Maybe I have just forgotten. I should hang it upstairs with all my sisterâs true work. I pause just before locking the door, open it, put the painting back into the alcove. There is a chance that it is one of mine after all. I have a vague memory of realising that feathers need a steady hand, making one tiny line overlap another till the lines become feathery. Maybe I painted it early in my Emily Reich period, when it was impossible for me to see where Bec ended and Emily began.
I lock the cupboard and pile my own worthless canvases in front of the door. I hang the key around
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