So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  Ossirian implored, “But what can one do?”

  “One can understand.” Toefler frowned in thought. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have to ask, but your education has been… unorthodox. I mean no disrespect when I ask: have you studied the classics? Rembrandt. Caravaggio. Vermeer. The masters. Have you studied them?”

  “Of course,” Ossirian said. “I’ve seen all of-

  “I did not say ‘the paintings of the masters’,” Toefler snapped. His voice took an almost avuncular tone. “Have you studied the masters themselves? Not just their techniques, but their personalities. Their lives.”

  Ossirian licked his lips and shook his head.

  “If you had, you might have studied Beecher. ‘Every artist dips his brush in his own soul and paints his own nature into his pictures’,” Toefler quoted, unfolding himself from the chair in lithe feline grace. “Perhaps you should have gone to school.” Toefler’s voice held a note of condescension.

  He started past the chair, and Ossirian’s hand flashed out and snagged Toefler’s wrist. Toefler looked down at the boy, whose eyes were wide and pleading. “What must I do?”

  “When you learn what they had to say, and you see how they said it, you’ll know what your painting is missing,” Toefler told him. He prized the hand from his wrist, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “And I sincerely hope that you do. Talent such as yours is wasted without a story to tell. But if your paintings are lifeless, what does it say of you? My own skill may be- is- lesser, but even my imperfect paintings have something to say, whether I convey it skillfully or not. When you can weld the two, your work will be…”

  Ossirian stared up at Toefler, eyes wide. To Carolyn he looked more like a lost schoolboy than ever, waiting as he did to hear what Toefler, whom he obviously admired, would say.

  Toefler squeezed Ossirian’s hand. “…moving.”

  He looked over at Carolyn, still holding Ossirian’s hand in his. He smiled at her. “Ms. Delgado. It was a pleasure.”

  He released Ossirian’s hand and without a glance back left them alone in the library.

  Ossirian slouched back into his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and brooded, his gaze into the middle distance seemed to crackle with frenzied energy.

  After a moment, she asked him, “May I bring you anything?”

  “No, my Muse. Thank you. I need to think.”

  She touched his shoulder as she passed, and was gratified to see that he gave her a warm and loving smile as she went.

  That’s why I’m not jealous, she realized with a jolt. The look on his face when he looks at me. When he sees me. He doesn’t look that way at anyone else. Whatever else I am, we are, that look… that’s the difference.

  She closed the door behind and went in search of a drink that wasn’t 80 proof.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “That was their first meeting?” Brent asked.

  “Yes. That was the first time they were in the same room together.” She finished her meal and brushed at her lips with a linen napkin.

  Brent hesitated. Then he blurted, “They had sex not twenty minutes after meeting?”

  “I’d wager it was fewer than that. Are you finished?”

  “And you and Mrs. de la Luna- oh, yes, thank you. I can help-”

  “Nonsense. Sit. Ask. I’ll clear,” she said, and busied herself doing just that. She poured them wine as he watched her. She smiled, appearing bemused. “You were about to ask?”

  “Hmm? Oh… you and-and Mrs. de la Luna. You were…” he trailed off, his face warm.

  “Lovers. Yes, occasionally.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  She pursed her lips. “You disapprove?”

  “What? Oh! No. Not at all. Besides, it’s not my place. I’m just trying to understand. You implied Ossirian and Toefler made love in the gallery, and at the same time you and Mrs. De la Luna were together as well. It all seems… very quick. Especially for the fifties.”

  She laughed merrily. “It was the fifties in America, dear boy. Everywhere else, it just was. Well,” she said judiciously, “perhaps not in Britain. But they’ve always been too uptight.”

  “I see.” He frowned in thought.

  She gave him an indulgent smile. “If I may… perhaps it’s age, or being of another time, but if you’ll pardon the presumption, your concept of love is limited.”

  “Is it?”

  “It would seem so. Your generation, I’ve noticed, is under the mistaken impression that sex and love are the same. In fact, they’re very much unconnected.”

  “I don’t think that’s accurate.”

  “Have you ever had a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup?”

  “What?” he asked, startled. “Well… yes. Of course.”

  “And do you like them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you can never have peanut butter and chocolate alone? Or are you able to eat them both separately and together?”

  He gave her an amused smile. “You’re making it awfully simplistic, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted, “but that doesn’t mean it’s incorrect. You may enjoy chocolate and peanut butter together, but also apart. And you may enjoy peanut butter and jelly without chocolate. And chocolate-covered raisins. And so forth. There are endless permutations. One need not be dependent upon another. Like the Mounds and Almond Joy analogy, if you will permit me to continue the candy metaphor.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Sometimes you feel like a nut,” she quoted, giving him an impish smile, “and sometimes you don’t.”

  He guffawed while she smiled.

  “Ultimately,” she said, “some things transcend. You may enjoy one thing or the other without damaging either. It’s a matter of taste, perspective, and inclination, as it is with all things. No two are alike. The de la Lunas, for instance, had a bond of love that made their marriage strong enough to allow one another the freedom of pleasure. It had nothing to do with their love for one another. And they did love one another. Immensely. In a way I’ve witnessed rarely. And myself and Ossirian-”

  She stopped speaking, her eyes far off. He watched her, feeling separated from her by an unseen gulf. He realized she had come upon one of those moments again, where she remembered Ossirian no longer lived.

  “Ossirian and I,” she continued, with a barely noticeable catch in her voice, “shared a similar relationship. He never married. I never married. But we never married together. Do you see?”

  “I hear you. I don’t know if I can understand. I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”

  “Have you never been jealous?”

  “Well, maybe once or twice… no. I guess not. No one’s ever been so important to me that I would get jealous.”

  She finished her glass of wine. “A pity. One should have emotions strongly enough to inspire jealousy. It’s good for you to realize that your heart is not always in your control.”

  “I don’t like being out of control.”

  She stood and gave him a tired smile. “Were you ever under the impression you were in control?”

  “Not lately,” he admitted. He swallowed the rest of his wine and rose with her.

  “I’m tired, Brent,” she said, and reached for him. He took her proffered hand. “Come away with me to bed.”

  “Of course.” They left the kitchen, shutting the lights off as they went. She led him through the corridors, lined as they were with artwork, but he purposely did not look at them. He stared instead at the woman before him, purposefully trying to keep everything at bay in his mind, to think just of her.

  The master bedroom was a luxurious affair, with a bed large enough for five or six people. More, if you stack ‘em right, he thought with a wicked grin. The velvet curtains were heavy and reached the floor. No light would penetrate their enveloping folds. The sheets that Carolyn drew the covers from were lush red silk, and they shimmered in the subtle light of the recessed sconces.

  She left h
im to use the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. He considered the room, shucked off his clothes, and slid into the bed.

  Almost literally, he thought, startled, as he slid over the silk. It was an enticing tactile feel, the silk against his bare skin, and he found it quite uplifting.

  After a time, the bathroom door opened and she glided into the bedroom wrapped again in diaphanous silk clouds that hid more than they revealed. She joined him on the bed, giving a hum of approval as she discovered he was naked.

  “Quite lovely,” she purred as she dragged fingernails across his skin.

  “Thank you. As are you.”

  She nuzzled against his neck, and he held her tight. She seemed to buzz with some kind of energy he wasn’t sure he could identify.

  She kissed his skin and he felt the electric thrill of her touch shoot through him like lightning. He kissed her neck, just behind her ear. But as he warmed to the task he felt moisture on his chest. She was crying.

  Brent Metierra did not claim to know a lot about women, especially women like Carolyn Delgado, who was so different from his own experience she might as well be another species; her own species. But what Brent did know was, sometimes the best thing you can do is shut up and be there, and that’s what he did. He held her firmly as he could, and she squirmed closer, tears still falling silently onto his bare skin.

  They remained intertwined, and she clung to him all night. She wept silently, would stop, and began again. He did his best to be present without being intrusive, to be whatever she needed without asking what that might be.

  In the darkest hour before dawn he felt her relax against him, having cried herself to sleep. He held her, staring into the darkness above him.

  Ossirian, if you can hear me, I hope you’re rotting in hell, you son of a bitch, he thought, for what you’ve done to this woman, who never did anything but love you.

  She whimpered in her sleep, and wriggled a hair closer, and he pressed his lips into her hair and kissed the top of her head.

  You better hope I never find you in the afterlife, Brent thought as he stared, wakeful into the might, because we’ll have words.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  He must have slept, because he became aware that the sunlight, filtered by the gauzy inner curtain of the shade, was warming the side of his face. The heavy velvet curtains had been drawn aside. She wasn’t beside him and she wasn’t in the room.

  He climbed to his feet, sliding off the edge of the bed with a delighted grin. He wasn’t a man who bought things; his life was pretty ascetic, but silk sheets, now… those he could get used to. He went into the enormous bathroom, which had a marble soaking tub as big as his whole apartment back in Chicago. There was a glassed-in shower with four arching, fluted showerheads that made him wildly jealous. He turned on the water and a cascade like a waterfall collided in the center of the shower and steam began to rise.

  A pile of clothing awaited him on the long low table on the other side of the room, and a stack of enormous, fluffy towels sat next to the shower. He opened the door and stepped into the water. Despite the heat of the previous day, it felt good to be scoured and cleansed. He scrubbed, preened, and enjoyed the hell out of the best shower he’d ever taken.

  When he had toweled off and dressed, he went in search of his hostess. The clock on the wall in the enormous hall that led to the main house told him it was just after seven A.M.

  He found Carolyn Delgado on the wide wooden deck that ran the length of the back of the house. She wore a diaphanous wrap of cloudy gray silk and held a mug of steaming coffee. His mouth watered. He helped himself to a second mug and slid the glass door aside. He stood next to her.

  “May I join you?”

  “But of course.” Her voice held a distracted note, and he eyed her.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, of course. Anything I can do.”

  She gave a wan smile, and stared over the trees down into the valley of São Paulo. The city sprawled lazily in the bowl of the valley, green mist blurring and obscuring the far edges. The jungle around them was alive with birdsong, and the sun had just peeked over the ridge to the east.

  They enjoyed the view in silence, and the coffee was thick and good, powerful enough to scrape the sleep from the edges of his brain. When they had finished, he followed her back inside.

  “Are you hungry? I could fix something.”

  “Not at the moment. I’d rather see the house again. In the light of day.”

  She smiled. “Good choice. The lights can do much, but the sunlight brings the paintings to life. Let me change, and I’ll take you around again.”

  “You don’t have to change on my account,” he said with what he hoped was an endearing smile, “and I can find my way.”

  “I want to be with you. Reading a painting is one thing. But reading someone’s face as they encounter beauty, that’s quite different. I wish to see you see them, if that is all right.”

  “Of course.”

  She left him in the kitchen, and he had more coffee while she changed into a skirt, blouse, and a pair of heels. Her face was serene and he was almost positive she’d used makeup, but he couldn’t tell precisely what she might have done. Her eyes were no longer red around the outside, but were instead clear and steady and white.

  “This coffee is amazing.”

  “It was picked a mile from here. Not more than a week ago. That is what coffee should be. Everything else is a pale reflection. Except for Turkish coffee, that is.”

  “Turkish coffee is as good as fresh coffee?”

  “No, but they use enough grounds that the flavor is stronger than most. Come, my boy. Let us view the history of the painting world.”

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led him again to that wide-open arena of color and texture. Again he marveled at the flawless woodwork. “Who did this? It’s obviously hand-carved, and by artisans.”

  “Senhor de la Luna hired the best local woodcarvers he could find, after Ossirian painted a picture of what he wanted. Together they created this extraordinary room,” she said. She ran a fingertip along the silky-smooth lacquered finish.

  “You lived here with the de la Lunas?”

  She nodded. “We shared their home and their lives for five years, before… before Senhora de la Luna took ill. She died in 1961. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She was happy right until the end. And Senhora de la Luna was a woman of enthusiasm and appetite. She had no regrets when she passed. We should all be lucky enough to claim so.”

  “Appetites,” Brent mused. He gave her a sly sideways glance. “I gathered that from your stories.”

  Carolyn looked at him, her eyes deep and serious. “She taught me everything I know about how to be myself,” she said. “I owe her and Senhor de la Luna an unpayable debt.”

  “Why do you not use their names?”

  “It is out of reverence and respect that I do not use their names casually,” she said, “but I assure you… in private we were most familiar.”

  “We.”

  “You have questions, Mr. Metierra?” she asked, somewhat archly.

  “Thousands. But they’re not appropriate. At least, not outside the bedroom.”

  She laughed merrily. “You are more clever than you look, my dear boy.”

  “Better than looking more clever than you are, I suppose,” he said with a smile.

  She led him back to the start, back to the first room, and flung open the door. Again the masterpieces crowed at him from the walls, demanding to be seen, demanding to be heard, but the bright sunlight streaming through the window caused the images to explode in vivid, living color so deep and immediate he blinked as though it caused him pain.

  “You were right, as you can see,” she all but whispered, her voice that of a penitent in a church. “About the sunlight.”

  He
nodded, mute, trying to see and understand everything at once. His voice, hushed and awed, almost couldn’t be heard over the cacophony of color and imagery, so immediate and bright was it.

  “Who did all this? How did this happen?”

  She smiled behind him, and he could hear it in her voice. “Come now, dear boy. You told me you were a good student of art. You tell me who painted them?”

  Brent studied the artwork with the eyes of a scholar. He saw past the colors and into the brushwork, into the purpose behind the brushwork, into the DNA of the paintings. What he saw troubled him. It couldn’t be possible.

  He turned to her, eyes wide. “It’s not just impossible,” he said, “but flatly contradictory. There’s no way the hands that made this made this. No way that any of these artists ever came here. They-”

  She put a finger to his lips. The touch was electric. “Shhh. Look. Not with your eyes. Look with your heart.”

  He frowned at her, but obediently turned to study the room again. And as he focused on the willful use of stroke and pigment, the purposeful carelessness of the backhanded brush-marks, he though he saw what she was implying. He looked closer, until she nudged him over the threshold.

  “Touch. Feel. Understand.”

  He went to his knees, reverently, hands finding the ridges and sworls of marks like fingerprints. He read them like braille, and his hands began to trace the movements, follow them like signposts into an unknow but familiar land, the way a familiar copse of wood looks in the winter, when the trees are dead, the leaves are gone, and the fresh white snow smothers everything in a blanket of forgetfulness.

  “…my God…” he whispered, hoarse. “I… I can’t believe this. It’s too… too big.”

  He turned to her.

  She smiled at him. “And now you see.”

  “I see. But what am I seeing?”

  “The path. The one it took him forever to find.”

  He stared at the floor under him, at the walls, at the ceiling. Every inch a work of unparalleled craftsmanship and even genius. “A path?”

  “The path,” she corrected. “The way through the dark of aimlessness and wandering into the light of righteousness and purpose. A path whose way came from the direction of an enemy.”