So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  “Let us retire to the beach,” Toefler suggested. “It would seem more convenient a place to talk. And I am thirsty.”

  Ossirian swam for shore, and Carolyn and Toefler shared a look.

  “You disapprove?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You’ve got him thinking. But to what end?”

  “That, I suggest, should be left to him to discover,” the man said. “Come, let us follow him.”

  She nodded, and they splashed to the glittering white sands of the beach, followed Ossirian’s dripping trail, and collapsed to the blanket. Toefler dug into the cooler and passed cold drinks around.

  Ossirian stared to speak, but Toefler cut him off. He said, “Rembrandt.”

  “Yes?” Ossirian asked. “He was vain. He painted himself into most of his work.”

  “True. But Self-Portrait with Two Circles,” Toefler said. “Tell me. Tell me about him.”

  Ossirian shrugged. “It is an older painting. Not just made toward the end of his life, but of an older Rembrandt. He is haughty; there is nothing humble about him. He holds a palette and several brushes. His hand is on his hip, and he seems very sure of himself.”

  Carolyn nibbled at a piece of cheese while she listened. She didn’t know where Toefler was headed, but he did seem to have a point to make.

  “Is he?”

  Ossirian frowned. “So it seems.”

  And what does one make of the two circles behind the artist?”

  “They are perfect,” Ossirian said.

  “And we make of that… what?”

  Ossirian glanced at Carolyn. “I… I do not know.”

  Toefler gave her a solemn look. “We must beg your indulgence, Ms. Delgado. We require your professional assistance. You know of the painting?”

  She gave him a withering look. “Of course. Painted in approximately 1669, ten years before his death. Regarded as unusual in the self-portraits for precisely the reason Ossirian has pointed out. It is a different Rembrandt. The clothing is not flashy, the haughty look is not upon an upturned face, but on a confident, somewhat lowered face, and the eyes are staring directly into the observer’s own. There is nothing coy. It is the gaze of one who is confident. It seems to say ‘yes. I am Rembrandt’ with all the weight of the reputation of the ages behind that statement.”

  “Wonderful. And the circles?”

  “They are perfect. And they are from a myth,” she said. “An Italian myth about Giotto.”

  “Would you enlighten us?”

  She pursed her lips. “The Pope summoned Giotto to the Vatican to prove his unmatched skill. He was provided with brushes and paint, blank canvases, and an edict: prove your worth. Giotto, according to Giorgio Vasari, drew a perfect circle in red on the canvas and instructed a messenger to take it to Pope Benedict XI. The messenger, by the account, believed he would be killed; that he was delivering an insult. But when he presented the single red circle to the Pope and his court, and explained to them that Giotto had drawn it in one motion, with one dab of paint, the Pope and the court marveled at the perfection of the hand-drawn, perfect circle. Upon this successful proof, Giotto was commissioned to provide several paintings for St. Peter’s Basilica.”

  Ossirian’s face lit up. “Brilliant. It is very deft, to prove one’s self by-” Ossirian’s mouth dropped open. “The two circles…”

  Toefler shrugged. “Perhaps the older, wiser Rembrandt wanted to brag a little, even in his later years,” he said with a smile.

  Ossirian puzzled over this for a while.

  “You know A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte?”

  “Of course.” Ossirian’s scorn was plain.

  “Tell me of the little girl in the red dress. What is she playing?”

  Ossirian shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Girl with the Pearl Earring. Where did her scarf come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Leighton’s Flaming June. What has tired the poor woman out so?”

  “I don’t know,” Ossirian said. “Sex, perhaps.”

  “Or is she weeping?” Toefler asked. “Is she mourning her lost love? Has she been injured in a quarrel?”

  “I do not want to play this game anymore if you’re not going to tell me the answers.” Ossirian’s voice held petulance and resentment.

  Toefler seemed to sense he’d reached the maximum at which Ossirian was prepared to be pushed. “They are meant to be interpreted, Ossirian. They are meant to be read with meaning and intent and interpretations the artist might never have expected. It’s a way of touching the conscious mind with the unconscious. It’s what your paintings are missing,” Toefler said.

  Ossirian’s face screwed up. “That’s it?”

  “Of course that’s not it,” Toefler scoffed. “It’s everything. Your paintings must be your answer to a question. The masters who painted the world’s greatest art were all trying to answer it. And the pieces we revere now are the pieces in which they came closest. The same is true of all art. As an extension of the artist, all art is the artist, trying to answer the question.”

  Ossirian was transfixed by this idea. Carolyn watched him ponder it. Hushed, he asked, “What is the question?”

  Toefler smiled at him, a fond, almost loving smile. He put a hand on Ossirian’s arm and said, “What is it my soul most wants to say to another soul?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Brent stared out into the greenish haze over the jungle. He thought about what Carolyn Delgado had told him. It made sense, in a queer sort of way.

  “What is it my soul most wants to say to another soul,” he mused.

  “It’s a good question.”

  “It is.”

  “It reoriented Ossirian. It gave him focus. Taught him what he needed to figure out.”

  “And that was?”

  “What he was trying to say, of course.”

  Brent thought about that for a while. “I’ve seen those early paintings, the ones Ruffiero sold without his permission, and the ones you sold afterward. They were… technically brilliant. But he changed after that. You can see it in his work. I… and all Ossirian scholars… thought- think- it was his talent fully blooming.”

  “His talent had bloomed at an early age. Well before he was Ossirian. Well before he came to São Paulo. Tell me, did you ever meet his parents?” Her voice became brittle.

  Brent shuddered. “I have. When I was doing a piece on Ossirian for my portfolio. I thought I’d be clever and track down the people who raised him. I thought they might know what to make of him, have an idea how he became who he was. Ossirian turned down all my requests for interviews, of course.”

  Carolyn failed to hide a smile. “It was I who turned you down, poor dear,” she told him. “I turned everyone down. He never did interviews.”

  “I know that now. It still hurt at the time,” he said. “But not as much as meeting the Clearbornes.”

  Carolyn’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “Yes. Mavis and Judson. The… the foster parents.”

  “Believe me, they were adults, technically, guardians at the very loosest of definitions, but parents isn’t a word I’d use for the likes of them.” He tasted bile thinking about them.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “You have met them.”

  “I did. They agreed to see me. It was… eye-opening.”

  “And did it illuminate anything about Ossirian for you?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “You could say that. I drove all night…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He knocked on the plain wooden door. He was in full reporter-mode, his eye particularly keen to grasp every detail. The unpainted door was weathered and gray. The white paint on the house flaked, and the yard was full of plant life, none of it could be called grass. He raised his fist again and the door opened. A thin, plain older woman in her late fifties with a pinched face and gray hair in curlers gave him a dirty look.

  “What do you mean, pounding on my door?” She wor
e a brown tee shirt and jeans, no shoes or socks, and she had, he noticed, an ingrown toenail on her left little toe. He was primed to notice everything.

  “Ma’am. My name’s Brent Metierra. I’m a grad student from the University of Chicago. I was hoping I could speak to you and your husband. I’m writing an article about Ossirian-”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  His lips twitched. He knocked again. And again. This time, a bent old man, wisps of white hair standing on his rumbled head, yanked it open. He held up a shotgun. Brent’s eyes widened.

  “You get on yer bike and ride, son,” the old man growled. “Won’t tell you agin.”

  Brent swallowed, terrified, but he’d done his research. He’d come prepared.

  “Five hundred dollars,” he remarked as if casually passing the time of day.

  The old man squinted. “Come again?

  “Five hundred dollars. That’s what I’m paying for the information I need.”

  The old man pondered this. “What kind of information?”

  “Details about bringing up a genius painter,” Brent said. And before the old man’s face could cloud over, he hurriedly added, “To tell your side accurately, of course.”

  Something gleamed in the old man’s eyes. He lowered the shotgun. “Wouldna shot you anyhow,” the old man grunted. “Too much hassle with the cops.”

  With that, he turned and walked into the ranch-style house, leaving the door open behind him. Brent wiped his feet, breathed a sigh of relief, and followed the old man inside, shutting the door behind. The woman watched them from the kitchen to the right of the hall. The kitchen was spare, with faded linoleum and a table that didn’t look like it had ever been new. The old man put the shotgun on the counter with a clatter.

  “Sit,” the old man said. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  A sour eye cast in his direction. “Wasn’t askin you.”

  The woman poured an off-white mug full and handed it to the man. “Thank you, Mae.”

  “What’s he want, Jud?” Her narrowed eyes bored into Brent.

  “Askin questions,” Jud grunted. “Like all of ‘em.”

  “Why’d we let him in?”

  “Money,” Brent interjected. He took out his wallet and laid five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table in front of him. “Five hundred dollars for the exclusive rights to your story.”

  “What story, Jud?” The woman’s eyes glittered at the notes to the table.

  “Yours,” Brent said. “I want to hear the truth about Ossirian.”

  He noted that, at the mention of his name, Jud and Mavis both scowled.

  “Took him in,” Jud said. “Gave him a roof, food, family. How’s he repay it? Runnin off, that’s how. Some genius. When do we see that money, eh? All those millions. We took im from the state, and he run off, leaving us with all kinds of trouble.”

  “He sounds ungrateful,” Brent said offhandedly, watching he couple obliquely. He didn’t miss the triumph in their eyes. He clicked on a mini recorder. “Let’s start at the beginning. He was a foster, you said. Do you know where he was born?”

  Jud and Mavis Clearborne shared another look, then Jud nodded. He sat across from Brent and scooped up the money. It vanished into his pocket. “Come out of Fond du Lac, he did. Some family there, I guess. There was some kind of incident. His fault, I believe.”

  Brent clenched his jaw. He’d read the police reports. How a seven-year-old boy could incite that kind of violence and predation he didn’t know. He decided to skip it. Try to keep them talking.

  “This was in ’47?”

  “Nearer ’48,” Jud corrected. He sipped his coffee. Mavis glanced at Jud, and they seemed to share a telepathic connection. Jud answered a question with his eyes, and Mavis said, a little harshly, “Want coffee, Mr…?”

  “Metierra,” Brent said. “and please. Thank you.”

  She grunted, poured him a mug, and set it down near his left arm. She picked up a rag and scrubbed listlessly at the Formica countertop.

  “So winter of ’48, they brought you Ossirian.”

  “Stupid name,” Jud said. “Some kinda Frog name. Whole place is fulla Frogs, Fond du Lac. Kinda name’s that, I ask you? This’s America. We didn’t fight-”

  “Did you ever speak to anyone in the family?”

  “What? No,” Jud said. He appeared nettled that Brent would interrupt him. “They up and vanished, what I heard. Couldn’t get far enough from the boy, I imagine.”

  “When they brought him the first night, what state was he in?” Brent asked.

  Mavis scoffed. “Like all snot-noses the first night. Cryin’, carrying on, whinin’. I don’t brook no back-talk. He was full of that.”

  “Was a mouthy little kid,” Jud opined. “Always wisin’ off. Actin’ smarter’n everyone in the room.”

  “Sounds like trouble,” Brent offered as he thought, The box of Wheaties on the counter’s smarter than most of the people in this room.

  “Always was.” Jud sipped his coffee and pointed the index finger of the hand holding the mug at Brent. “Prob’ly never got any better. We watched out for ‘im eight years. And how’s he thank us? Never heard so much trouble, after he run oft.”

  “What about before that?” Brent asked. “Was he a trouble-maker at school?”

  “Oh, they thought he was some kinda Little Lord Faultleroy,” Jud sneered. “Always praisin’ his fingerpainting, always tellin’ us how smart he was. As though he didn’t come home and shit th’ bed afeared every night.”

  “He had nightmares?” This was new. Brent had never learned anything about Ossirian’s childhood. The man himself wouldn’t give interviews, and there was precious little record left. The adoption records were sealed, and every official channel Brent had tried had held fast. The two unofficial attempts he’d made, with ready cash and a glib story, were similarly rebuffed.

  “Always wakin’ up screamin. You never heard such a racket,” Mavis said.

  “And the expense!” Jud exclaimed. “Like we was made of money, buyin’ him new sheets, cleanin up after him. Always cost a pretty penny, that boy. And wouldn’t talk to th’ other fosters if he didn’t have to. Why, he-”

  “How many children did you foster?” Brent asked.

  Jud’s mouth closed with an almost audible snap. “Over the years? Many.” He looked at Mavis. “Twenty? Thirty?”

  “Som’n like ‘at,” she agreed. “So many faces. So many kids needing help. Poor dears.”

  Brent noticed the line seemed tired and worn through. He decided to push a little. “No, I meant how many were here with Ossirian? Foster kids, they form bonds. Maybe a few of them could talk to me about-”

  “Most of ‘em been long adopted,” Jud cut him off. “Don’t matter none.”

  “How many did you have?”

  Jud glanced at Mavis, shrugged. “What… we had about eight that time?”

  “Sounds about it,” she agreed.

  “Can you offer me anything new that you haven’t told others?” Brent asked. “Anything that might give a hint as to where his… gift came from?”

  Jud shook his head. “Nope. Never cared to ask, and now there’s no one left.”

  “Gift,” Mavis scoffed. “Like it made ‘im special or somethin’. No-account ungrateful little brat.”

  Brent shut off his recorder, started packing up his things. Jud frowned at him. “You done?”

  “Oh, I’m done.” He started packing things away in his satchel.

  “You ain’t even heard our side.”

  “You have a side?” Brent asked. His barely-contained contempt seared his words. “You took in an abused kid, ignored his needs, belittled his talents, and didn’t even register him as missing for almost a month.”

  “Here now,” Jud began, but Brent cut him off.

  “I’ve seen the paperwork. I can add. It was sixty-one days before you registered him as missing. I further noticed that it was the day before a social worker c
ame to visit, just like every eight weeks. I did my homework, Mr. Clearborne.”

  Jud shoved his chair out and stood abruptly. “You lied to me.”

  “Seems fair,” Brent said. He slung his bag. “You lied to me.”

  “You git out my house,” Jud growled. “You got yer moneys’ worth, I reckon.”

  “So did you,” Brent said. He looked at Mavis as he spoke. “Monthly check for eight kids. This house… it’s an old farmhouse. You got lots of room. But there can’t be but four rooms upstairs. So assuming you gave ‘em three rooms, they’re still packed in like cordwood. You waited two months, collected the two checks for Ossirian’s keep, then collected four more months before they decided he wasn’t coming back and removed him from your care officially. Six month’s state money. You got your money’s worth. You wanted to know when he’d pay you back? You were paid. He earned every penny he has, unlike you. And you’re lucky he never decided to come pay you back for your warmth and generosity, I reckon,” Brent sneered at them. Jud reached for his shotgun, and Brent took two quick steps into the man’s personal space. “Go ahead,” Brent breathed. “Do it. Pick it up, old man.”

  Jud’s hand shook, and his anger boiled from him like steam from a boiler. But he didn’t touch the gun.

  “Go ahead,” Brent said again. “And when my editor wonders why I didn’t call in after this little visit, well… won’t take long for the cops to come crawling. Dig up all your old past indiscretions, eh?”

  Jud’s eyes shifted away. “That weren’t-”

  Brent gave Mavis a scornful look. “Ossirian walked away from here in ’55. Seven years of money for keeping him here. He walks out, all the way to Brazil. And it’s… what? Four years later you lose your foster certification- not easy to do in those days, I might add- and you’ve got the nerve to act like you were doing him a favor.”

  He turned back at the doorway of the kitchen. “If he never thought of you in twenty years, it was too many times.”

  With that, he let himself out of the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Do you know what happened to Ossirian before the Clearbornes took him in?”