by Frank Deford
Nina is hardly scandalized by this revelation, but neither has she had any reason to anticipate it. “Ah, so your Margareta is a married woman?”
“She would hardly be the first of her fair sex to stray from her nuptial vows,” Ollie replies, smugly. “But make ye no mistake, duchess, Margareta loves me so—as I her—that we would well share our rapture on a bed o’ nails were that our only trysting place.” He laughs heartily. “Nonetheless, such sumptuous accommodations I do enjoy, that ’twas a whore named Elsa—she, a great favorite of the master who also poses for him in his private studio—who granted me her services free, only that she might lie betwixt such fine sheets.” He pauses. “But God as my witness, I have been done with that cow since Margareta granted me her charms.”
“And Margareta was posing when you met her?”
“She was. And when Mr. Rubens noticed how taken I was with that sweet countenance, he bid her remain there in his private studio to divert me.”
“In what fashion, pray?”
“Well, ’tis hard work posing.”
“Oh come now, a big strong man such as you?”
Ollie shows some irritation at that. “I wager you’d not say such a thing if you knew how the master has me twisted about like a pennant round a maypole, holding some big staff with my left hand, while peering down.”
“Why are you staring down?”
“Because, duchess, in the painting, Adonis is looking upon Venus, upon her very tits—but I have not that pleasure, for the master is sketching me alone. Me? I have nought to gaze upon, save the floor. Moreon, all the while, Mr. Rubens has one of his assistants read Latin to entertain him. ’Twas a chore that was showing on my brow.”
“So Rubens had Margareta remain in the studio?”
“He did. He placed her at my feet, where my eyes would cast down upon her—and not upon the harsh red patterns of the floor, those that all but crossed my eyes.”
“Well, that certainly made posing more agreeable.”
“True. Yet it remains a most wearing position.”
“Oh, it doesn’t sound that uncomfortable,” Nina says, egging him on. “Show me.”
“Pshaw. A fie upon you, duchess. Enough that I must set myself so long in the studio, that now you ask me to do the same—only for your merriment.”
Nina flirts a bit. “Oh, just for a moment, Ollie—so if ne’er we meet again, I can always remember you as Adonis.”
Flattered, Ollie rises, and for the first time in several minutes, Nina is once more wrenched back to reality. Now again, it is a woman she sees standing before her, the earrings and lipstick, the female face and form. Once more it is Constance Rawlings.
But just as quickly, Nina sees Adonis return. Yes, there he is. It is Ollie who spreads his legs apart, feet slightly out, right foot forward. He is set. Adonis is set. Now he twists, holding his left arm high, uncomfortable, all the more so that he has no prop to grasp as his spear. Then, finally, he contorts himself more, setting his gaze down upon a Venus who would be there. He even cants his head exactly to stare at his love.
Nina gasps. As much as she was prepared for this pose, she must catch her breath. It is perfect. It is uncanny. It is exactly that impossible, twisted pose of Adonis in the painting—and such an unnatural, discomfited position, that no one could possibly make it up. No one. Zounds, God’s wounds, Nina says to herself.
“Enough for your pleasure?” Ollie sneers after a few seconds—although really, he is enjoying his act. Ollie likes being Adonis. As what vain man wouldn’t?
“All right, but tell me one thing?”
“Aye,” he says, relaxing.
“If Margareta isn’t Venus, then what painting is she in?”
“Mr. Rubens has almost finished it,” Ollie replies. “He only brought her back to touch up some things.”
“And that’s when you met her?”
Ollie grins. “It’s called Holy Family with Saint Francis. And my Margareta is”—he snickers a bit—“she is the Madonna. But methinks she is herself no virgin.” That pleases him, both his humor and his memory of their love. So, to punctuate his joy, Ollie suddenly twists back into his pose again—although this time he changes the tilt of his head just enough to look smugly upon Nina.
Well, she thinks, staring back at him, what a wonderful irony that the other Adonis is really a woman, and the Madonna is a man.
22
After Constance left, Nina was essentially useless for the rest of the day. Oh, the patients came and went, and she responded to them, but almost unconsciously. Roseann said that Lindsay had called, but Nina forgot to call her back. All she could think about was Constance. Ollie.
Ollie was going to kill Margareta.
No, Nina. Nina, please. Ollie has killed Margareta. In 1635.
And there must be a rational explanation to all this.
She opened her desk drawer and stared at God touching Man, giving him life. For the first time, Nina thought: if He can give a new life, why can’t He give life again and again? Isn’t that, really, just a technicality of faith?
The phone rang. It was Bucky. “Have you seen Constance yet?” he whined, sounding like a little boy.
“I’ve been in touch with her,” Nina replied, which was the truth, if not the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. “When I’m finished with my examination, I’ll call you.”
But how did she handle things with Constance from here? After she’d brought her out of hypnosis, Nina had only told her that, yes, she’d been a most revealing subject. And yes, she’d assured Constance, she had indeed confirmed her undying affection for Bucky. But Nina volunteered nothing of her regression, nothing of Cecil and Ollie, nothing of Rubens and 1635. She still was taking pains to make sure that she did not in any way influence their visit tomorrow to gallery twenty-seven. They would enter Rubens’s room together, Constance unaware, and then Constance would, like Bucky, see Ollie and Margareta. Maybe. Or maybe, like everyone else, she would only see the Madonna and Adonis. Anyway, Nina would watch her.
After their session, Constance herself had stepped out of Nina’s office into the swelter of Fifth Avenue. Early as it was in the day, the heavy July air shimmered before her. She glanced down and there was Bess, lying in the stream where a sidewalk should be. This time, too, Constance remembered her name. She had always known it was Bess when she was a little girl, and now, suddenly, she knew it again. Perhaps she should mention this oddity to Dr. Winston tomorrow; probably everybody had inexplicable memories like this.
Downtown at Merrill Lynch, Constance spoke to the department chief about her transfer to the New York office. Delighted; pro forma. So, Constance went up to the top of the World Trade Center. The sky was blue but the air was dirty, and so looking northeast toward where Bucky resided with his (first) wife and children, Constance was unable to make out Connecticut.
So Constance went to Central Park and rented a horse. Only a half hour in this heat, said the stableman. Constance rode out, thinking of Bucky. It was excruciating to know that he was right here, now, in this very same city, and when she trotted, posting up on her horse, she began to imagine that she was making love, sitting astride Bucky. Up and down. It was very clear to her. Also, unbearable. She had to break her mount into a canter so that she would not post, would not think about making love to Bucky.
Nina was leaving the office just then. Never mind that it was the hottest part of the hottest day of the year. She needed to walk, to move. By the time she got to her apartment, she was sticky with perspiration. All over. Oh, but that felt good and primeval.
Hardly before she closed the door to her apartment behind her, she started stripping off her damp clothes. She only paused when she unhooked her bra. Nina held it up, visualizing Constance/Cecil/Ollie reaching out a hand, fingering it in curiosity. And she thought: if, say,
you were a scam artist and if this were all some sort of incredible fraud, and Bucky and Constance—and Jocelyn Ridenhour, too—if all of them were in league, and they had made all this Venus-and-Adonis stuff up out of whole cloth, and somehow they could fake being hypnotized and somehow they could contrive this whole complicated scheme, still…still, nobody would ever think of touching a bra and then asking what it is. Nobody.
Only finally did she let the bra slip from her hands and step out from her panties and into the shower. She simply stood there letting the water run all over her, not even bothering about soap or shampoo, only standing under the spray, replacing a sticky wet with a wet wet, until—was that the phone?
She grabbed a towel, if only to stand on when she picked up the receiver. “Nina,” said the voice—and now, suddenly, every drop of water that clung to her suddenly glistened and tingled.
“Oh Hugh,” she chirped, “what a wonderful time to hear from you.”
He didn’t respond in kind. Instead, rather formally, he asked, “You free tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Could you come to my office at the Seminary at eight? Brown Tower—Broadway and 120th.”
“Oh terrific. I need so much to talk—”
He cut her off. “There’ll be someone else here, too.”
“Someone else?”
“Jocelyn Ridenhour.”
Only then did Nina realize that she was standing, dripping wet, the air conditioner blowing on her, as the erstwhile tingly glistening drops were now just so much drab cold water that made her shiver.
Jocelyn was already there when Nina arrived at Hugh’s, an office as cluttered and idiosyncratic as hers was neat and specific. Maybe that made it slightly easier for Nina, that Jocelyn—seated in an old wing chair over to the side amongst a freestanding stack of books and some squash rackets—almost blended in, just another eccentric artifact midst the hodgepodge. But then Nina saw Jocelyn’s face more clearly, and she recognized her familiar form as she rose tall to greet her—and that made Nina cringe a little.
Jocelyn, without ado, announced, “Dr. Winston, I’m here to apologize for my behavior.” Nina neither said anything in response, nor did she deign to offer her hand. So, Jocelyn spoke again. “What I did was inexcusable.”
“Yes,” Nina said then, ice cold.
Hugh, who had remained standing, more or less as a buffer between the two women, now spoke, “I must tell you, Nina, that Jocelyn and I have known each other.”
“Oh?”
“Several years ago,” Hugh went on, emphasis on the several, “we had a brief, uh, thing.” Emphasis on the brief.
The qualifications of time notwithstanding, that revelation infuriated Nina. Hugh had actually been screwing this crazy woman, who had chased her all over, broken into her office, and generally scared her out of her wits. Her anger was tinted with jealousy, embroidered by betrayal. She turned from Hugh to face Jocelyn. “I also understand you had a thing with Mr. Buckingham.” Jocelyn nodded. “My, have you slept with every man I know?”
“Nina!” Hugh cried out.
But Jocelyn deflected the cheap shot into a glancing blow. She gently touched Hugh’s arm. “It’s all right, Hugh. And really, Doctor, I don’t think two men makes a quorum in Manhattan.” Then she sighed, with a wistful little smile. “Besides, despite all my wiles, I could never make Hugh forget you.”
“Jocelyn!” Hugh gasped.
At least Hugh’s embarrassment did make Nina feel a bit more kindly. Quickly, though, she put back on her unforgiving face, turning again to Jocelyn. “I believe you have some notes and a tape of mine, too.”
Reaching into her purse, Jocelyn pulled out a manila envelope and handed it over. Nina glanced inside. “Did you make copies?”
“Of the tape yes, but I destroyed it.” When Nina looked skeptical, Jocelyn added, “I swear to you.”
“She did,” Hugh added. “Jocelyn and I have talked a great deal about what she did. And why.”
“Well?” Nina asked.
So Jocelyn began trying to explain herself. She started with her interest in reincarnation, moved onto her association with Bucky, their visit to gallery twenty-seven, and, most recently, to Jocelyn’s frustration that Bucky would no longer respond to her. Nina sat down as she listened, crossing her legs in that fashion that only women can, that perfectly indicates impatience. Indeed, when Jocelyn finally concluded her whole long explanation cum apology, Nina only shook her head and sighed, “But to break into my office, to—”
Hugh stopped her abruptly. “Damn it, Nina, this isn’t easy for Jocelyn. Haven’t you ever in your life done something you knew was wrong, even as you did it because you cared so much?”
Nina turned sharply to Hugh. You sonuvabitch, she thought. That isn’t fair. You know goddamn good and well that making love to you isn’t the same thing as breaking and entering. But, softly and defensively—hurt—Nina only uttered “Yes,” and let it pass.
Maybe Jocelyn understood. Anyway, she changed the subject. “I got your letter,” she said. “Would you like to know about Double Ones?”
Nina shrugged. “Yeah, what is all that?”
So, Jocelyn explained. She even showed Nina photographs of Sergei and Ludmilla. And when she was finished, Nina had grown more curious than angry. “So,” she said, “you think Bucky and Constance are these Double Ones?”
“Oh I’m convinced of it. Especially after I saw the way he acted in the Metropolitan.” She paused. “Dr. Winston, do you believe in reincarnation?”
Nina glanced quickly over to Hugh. “I never have, no.”
“But could you now?”
Nina considered her answer, and purposely, when she finally did respond, she looked more toward Hugh. “I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Hugh frowned. Nina went on. “You know, it’s funny. We all agree it’s likely that somewhere in the universe there’s another planet with life on it, and we accept the possibility that some space ship can travel for light years—centuries—and appear here. But when I think about it, isn’t that more fantastic than that God can send a soul back to the same place?”
It was a small concession, but Jocelyn appreciated it—especially when she saw Hugh grimace—so she took it as the right moment to leave. This time, too, when she held out her hand, Nina accepted it. Jocelyn said, “Doctor, I happen to believe that we’ve come upon something that is exciting and important, and if I can help you in any way, please let me. Otherwise, I swear to you that I will stay out of your life.”
Nina said, “Thank you.”
Jocelyn stopped at the door. “However, I should tell you this. A couple of weeks from now, the beginning of August, I’m going to St. Petersburg to visit Sergei and Ludmilla. And I’ve changed my itinerary to return by way of Belgium.”
“Antwerp?” Nina asked.
“Of course. I just want to see it there, see where Rubens lived with Helena. I’m pretty sure they were Double Ones, too. And I want to see Rubens’s house. It’s perfectly restored, you know. And I want to see his studio, where I’m sure Bucky and Constance posed. I want to feel as much of it—as much of them—as possible, especially for whenever Bucky talks to me about it again.”
Jocelyn turned to open the door. “Have a safe journey, Joc,” Hugh said, and she stepped in to the hall.
Suddenly, though Nina called after her. Jocelyn turned back, surprised, unsure. “Will you do something for me, Jocelyn?”
“I owe you.”
Nina snatched a pad off Hugh’s desk and wrote on it. “When you’re at Rubens’s house, do you know: do they still have records?”
“What kind of records?”
“Well, like who worked for him, who he paid?”
“To be his models?”
“Exactly.”
“I was already thinking about that,” Jocelyn said.
“All right, look for these three names,” Nina said, handing her the sheet. She had written down: Oliver Goode, Cecil Wainwright, and Margareta. Jocelyn’s hands shook a little as she read them—especially when she saw the “Oliver.” Ollie, for sure.
However, Jocelyn only said, “Just Margareta?”
“For now. If I come up with the last name, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.”
“And if there’s any police records.”
“Police forces really hadn’t been created back in the seventeenth century,” Hugh said, interrupting—but helpfully.
“Okay. Whatever. Any death records.” Nina took a breath. “All right, was a woman named Margareta murdered in 1635? Was she strangled?”
Jocelyn gasped with excitement. “I’ll see what I can find,” she said, and she put on her hat—one of those sort of upside-down bowl-type hats that British Air stewardesses are required to wear. Then she turned away, disappearing jauntily down the hall.
Hugh arched his eyebrows and said, “Murder?”
“You have no idea,” Nina answered, “what I am in the midst of.”
“Are you all right?”
She evaded that. Instead, “I’m gonna see it through.”
He took her by the shoulders, gently. “Oh, Nina, I wish I could do something.”
“You can.”
“I can?”
“You can love me.” And with that, he said nothing, simply took Nina into his arms and kissed her as she had kissed him in the Tiffany Court—only now, of course, they were alone. She responded, wrapping her arms around his back and drawing him as much into her embrace as he had taken her into his. At last. Again. It was so sweet and passionate, alike, that Nina knew this was the prelude to a whole night of love, whole. At last. Again. Mischievously, she even thought: you took me on my couch—you defiled my very office!—and now, turnabout is fair play, and I’m going to screw you right here on your desk at the Union Theological Seminary.
But then for no good reason, Hugh pushed her away. Incredibly, he said, “You must go now.”
