the reason for his resolute insistence that I suc-ceed in my bid to portray Mrs. Charbuque precisely.
When the cab stopped at Shenz's address, I woke him. He came to with a start and then smiled, his eyelids open-ing to mere slits. "I had a dream, Piambo," he said.
"Was it of that model of Hunt's again, the girl sitting on that wag's lap in The Awakening
Conscience?"
I asked.
"No," he said, and slowly shook his head. "I was trapped in a glass jar, and Borne was peering in at me. I tapped the glass with my walking stick, desiring to be let out. He paid no attention, though. I saw he was at work making a label. On it he wrote in large black letters LUNCH."
I saw my friend to his door. Before he passed over the threshold, I said to him, "Listen, Shenz, I do truly appre-ciate your help. I'll consider going to the warehouse. But first let me see what else I can learn from Mrs. Charbuque."
He fixed me with a look of grave weariness. "I never told you this," he said, "but before Sabott died, I had a conversation with him one day when he turned up at the Player's Club. No one Page 39
would
acknowledge his presence, and they were watching him closely, prepared to eject him if he should get out of hand, but I went over and sat with him out of due respect. Luckily he was having a rare lucid moment. He bought me a drink and spoke brilliantly about the painting by Waterhouse of the Sirens depicted as birds of prey with women's heads, surrounding Ulysses, who is bound to the mast of his ship.
Before he left, he mentioned you, and said to me, 'Shenz, keep an eye on that boy for me. I haven't had the chance to tell him everything.' Then he left. Two weeks later he was dead."
Sunday Morning
I woke very early Sunday morning to a suffused gray light and the patter of a driving rain against the window. Although it was cold out beyond the blankets and the counterpane, Samantha lay next to me, enveloping me in her warmth. There, on our intimate island of calm, I felt temporarily safe from the concerns that presently plagued me. Swarming just beyond the confines of the bed, I knew, was that flock of female images waiting to descend and peck at my consciousness, tear apart my reason. I thought
I would remain where I was, lashed to the mast, so to speak, for a little while longer.
I turned away from the world and watched Samantha breathe, wondering what dreams she moved through behind the screen of sleep. Her long dark hair swept over and around the pillow, wild in its configurations. There were curious minute angles at the corners of her closed lips—either a smile or a sign of consternation. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, and I could read her pulse by concen-trating on her neck. Evident now also were the creases around her eyes and mouth, betraying her age. The blan-kets lay at a slant across her body exposing her right breast, and seeing her at that moment made me think what a perfect subject she would be for a portrait.
I had to wonder whether in all the portraits I had done of her, most when we were younger, I had ever really captured her essence, or if what I had painted was, expanding upon Sabott's dictum, only something of myself.
I lay there swinging rapidly back and forth between specific memories of my days with Samantha and moments of clouded uncertainty when her sleeping figure mocked my belief that I knew anything about her at all. In an attempt to circumvent the troublesome half of this equation, I concentrated on the kindness she had shown the previous day by bringing Emma to my studio. I smiled when considering how poor a job I had done in rendering the girl's looks, and then, suddenly, miraculously, I had a thought that was not centered upon myself.
I dressed and left the house in such haste that I did not remember an umbrella, and by the time I reached Broadway, I was soaked to the skin. As happens during such torrential rains, the thoroughfares had been turned to mud. When I had to leave the safety of the
When the cab stopped at Shenz's address, I woke him. He came to with a start and then smiled, his eyelids open-ing to mere slits. "I had a dream, Piambo," he said.
"Was it of that model of Hunt's again, the girl sitting on that wag's lap in The Awakening
Conscience?"
I asked.
"No," he said, and slowly shook his head. "I was trapped in a glass jar, and Borne was peering in at me. I tapped the glass with my walking stick, desiring to be let out. He paid no attention, though. I saw he was at work making a label. On it he wrote in large black letters LUNCH."
I saw my friend to his door. Before he passed over the threshold, I said to him, "Listen, Shenz, I do truly appre-ciate your help. I'll consider going to the warehouse. But first let me see what else I can learn from Mrs. Charbuque."
He fixed me with a look of grave weariness. "I never told you this," he said, "but before Sabott died, I had a conversation with him one day when he turned up at the Player's Club. No one Page 39
would
acknowledge his presence, and they were watching him closely, prepared to eject him if he should get out of hand, but I went over and sat with him out of due respect. Luckily he was having a rare lucid moment. He bought me a drink and spoke brilliantly about the painting by Waterhouse of the Sirens depicted as birds of prey with women's heads, surrounding Ulysses, who is bound to the mast of his ship.
Before he left, he mentioned you, and said to me, 'Shenz, keep an eye on that boy for me. I haven't had the chance to tell him everything.' Then he left. Two weeks later he was dead."
Sunday Morning
I woke very early Sunday morning to a suffused gray light and the patter of a driving rain against the window. Although it was cold out beyond the blankets and the counterpane, Samantha lay next to me, enveloping me in her warmth. There, on our intimate island of calm, I felt temporarily safe from the concerns that presently plagued me. Swarming just beyond the confines of the bed, I knew, was that flock of female images waiting to descend and peck at my consciousness, tear apart my reason. I thought
I would remain where I was, lashed to the mast, so to speak, for a little while longer.
I turned away from the world and watched Samantha breathe, wondering what dreams she moved through behind the screen of sleep. Her long dark hair swept over and around the pillow, wild in its configurations. There were curious minute angles at the corners of her closed lips—either a smile or a sign of consternation. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, and I could read her pulse by concen-trating on her neck. Evident now also were the creases around her eyes and mouth, betraying her age. The blan-kets lay at a slant across her body exposing her right breast, and seeing her at that moment made me think what a perfect subject she would be for a portrait.
I had to wonder whether in all the portraits I had done of her, most when we were younger, I had ever really captured her essence, or if what I had painted was, expanding upon Sabott's dictum, only something of myself.
I lay there swinging rapidly back and forth between specific memories of my days with Samantha and moments of clouded uncertainty when her sleeping figure mocked my belief that I knew anything about her at all. In an attempt to circumvent the troublesome half of this equation, I concentrated on the kindness she had shown the previous day by bringing Emma to my studio. I smiled when considering how poor a job I had done in rendering the girl's looks, and then, suddenly, miraculously, I had a thought that was not centered upon myself.
I dressed and left the house in such haste that I did not remember an umbrella, and by the time I reached Broadway, I was soaked to the skin. As happens during such torrential rains, the thoroughfares had been turned to mud. When I had to leave the safety of the
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