by James Cole
I have already seen the piece and find that it is an excellent representation of Claire’s work. For your viewing pleasure, I have attached a photo of that painting, as well as a photo of Claire’s “Wicked Water” composition, which you so admired the night of the showing.
Sincerely, Quintin
Jeremy opened the attachments and was pleasantly surprised to find two high resolution photographs, one of each painting. Evidently, Quintin spared no expense in either his artwork or his photography equipment. The real shocker, however, was the subject matter of the newly-surfaced painting, entitled The Ends, which Quintin hoped to obtain.
The depiction was of a graveyard on a knobby hill. Cedar trees, overrun with Spanish moss, were scattered over the landscape and the silhouettes of tombstones punctured the ground-hugging haze like skyscrapers of a distant skyline. An aged but intact wrought-iron fence traced the perimeter of the cemetery.
At the slice in the fence where the gate had been, a child stood, holding a purple flower. Dark hair spilled out onto her slender shoulders. The invisible hand of the wind held her hair and contrasting white dress afloat and, like a ghost, she seemed to hover at the gateway. She was beautiful and utterly innocent, yet she harbored an expression of terrible sadness and longing. As Jeremy gazed wistfully upon the image of the child, he perceived in her demeanor the most heartrending aspect of all: she knew. The dark forces of the graveyard had her and she, though as innocent as the sacrificial lamb, understood, and had resigned herself to this terrible fate.
The cemetery, absent the child, was a familiar scene to Jeremy as he had taken several photographs from the same exact perspective. Claire’s painting was undoubtedly of the Eternal Springs Graveyard, the very one Jeremy visited on Monday, three days prior. Ironically, Claire had chosen as a subject the place in the world where she would come to be buried. This was the surprise.
Jeremy compared his photos to the painting and marveled at how little the cemetery had changed in the nearly 40 years since the hippie queen put the scene down on canvas. As he studied the images, he noticed one particularly intriguing detail. Had he not been to the cemetery and taken the pictures, he could not have known at what he was looking, but there, in the background, far removed from the viewer’s vantage point and rising ever-so-slightly above the clutter of so many tombstones, were two protrusions, so inconspicuous as to almost be invisible.
And though the implications were baffling, Jeremy could not deny that the two protrusions were, in fact, wingtips – the wingtips of a certain angel.
*****
How did one explain the inclusion of Eros’ wingtips in her painting of the cemetery? How could someone compose a painting that included a monument placed posthumously over her own grave? Did this mean that Claire did not die after all in the commune fire? Her death and burial in Eternal Springs Cemetery seemed to be a well-documented fact, at least as far as the newspapers and the official county records were concerned.
If one did not subscribe to conspiracy theories – and Jeremy decidedly did not – the only other plausible explanation was that the painting was a fake and that someone other than the hippie queen composed the painting. While Jeremy did not know much about how easy or difficult it might be to imitate someone else’s painting, he knew exactly who would know: Quintin Gordy, the art connoisseur. And, not only would Quintin likely know the finer points of artist authentication, he would also likely be grateful to be made aware that he might be about to place a substantial bid for what could be a forgery.
Jeremy checked the phone book but could find no listing for the collector. He did, however, have Quintin’s email address and promptly shot off a message:
Hi Quintin:
How difficult would it be to manufacture a fake Claire Wales’ painting? How do you make sure of a painting’s authenticity before buying it?
Just wondering,
Jeremy
The collector’s reply came back within the half-hour:
Jeremy,
Based on the painting technique alone, I am 99% sure that the cemetery painting (The Ends) is an authentic Claire Wales’ composition. Every artist has a distinctive pattern of brush strokes and style that is very difficult to copy. Having studied many of her known works, I am quite confident that this particular painting is indeed authentic.
I am curious as to why you might pose such a question. Perhaps you could elaborate?
Quintin
Using instant messaging, the ensuing exchange occurred in real time:
Jeremy: Is there a means to be absolutely sure it is authentic?
Quintin: Claire often used paints derived from natural sources. This is one reason why her work attracts so much interest. There are certain pigments she used that are completely unique to her compositions. A positive test for those specific pigments would satisfy the other 1% of uncertainty. Does this answer your question?
Jeremy: Without elaborating, I would suggest that you go forward with the pigment tests before you purchase this particular piece, just to be sure.
Quintin: As for waiting to purchase the piece, I’m afraid it is too late for, as of this evening, it belongs to me. The seller unexpectedly accepted my early bid and the transaction is complete. As for the additional testing, perhaps I will take your advice, as your insight has been beneficial to me in the past. I’ll let you know the results of the pigment tests as soon as I am able to complete them. Perhaps then you’ll tell me what this is all about.
Thinking that he owed Quintin an explanation, Jeremy began typing out his reasoning, but stopped mid-sentence. Quintin was perfectly happy with his acquisition – or at least had been before now – and Jeremy had no desire to play the role of spoil sport. Jeremy used the delete key to chomp up what he had begun to write. Even though he had good reason to believe the painting was a forgery and he would very much like to discuss the matter in depth, telling Quintin at this time would only make the kind collector worry. Jeremy decided it better to just wait, as they could not know the answer for sure until after the pigment tests were completed. And, as they say, ignorance is bliss.
There was one more question Jeremy wished to ask the collector, but he did not know if Quintin would be inclined to answer.
As politely as he could word it, Jeremy asked: This is none of my business, and if you don’t want to tell me I would understand, but I was wondering how much you paid for the painting?
Quintin replied: 12K.
Jeremy knew Quintin had likely anted up handsomely for the painting, but twelve thousand dollars was a good bit more than he had expected. For Quintin’s sake, Jeremy hoped that he was wrong and the painting was not a fake.
On the other hand, if the painting proved to be authentic, Jeremy would be forced to consider the intriguing notion that Claire – the queen of the hippies – had somehow managed to survive the fire.
Chapter 34
Friday, December 5
The early tinges of dawn lent a pinkish hue to the lake as Jeremy paddled north along the shoreline. He was glad he thought of the two racked canoes stored in the back of the Sticks River Landing parking lot and, better yet, glad he remembered the combination to the lock that secured them. The by-water approach would save close to two hours of hiking each way.
As he paddled, Jeremy’s thoughts ran over the variety of issues he faced. He felt guilty for skipping his organic lecture today, the last class of the semester, but after having been outed on the national news yesterday, he had no desire to show his face on campus. The make-or-break final exam was scheduled for next Friday, giving him exactly one week to prepare. While the test seemed insignificant compared to his legal troubles, failing the course would not help matters.
The police had not contacted him since Lieutenant Sykes’ interrogation five days ago, but Jeremy knew they would be doing everything in their power to gather more evidence against him. That they had not already searched his apartment underscored his standing as a person of interest and not yet a full-fledged susp
ect. Jeremy cringed at the idea of a bunch of strangers rifling through his apartment and his personal belongings. Except for the prize tucked away in the back of his sock drawer, he had nothing to hide. He should, however, probably move the Unreal out of his apartment.
Maybe you should just take it – that would get it out of the apartment.
He tried to ignore the wayward thought, although he had to admit that would serve the purpose.
Jeremy paddled until he reached a point about three miles past the secret beach, not far from where Sticks River emptied into the lake. Using his GPS unit to guide him, he walked overland until he closed in on the waypoint he had first pinpointed using the aerial photos of this part of Sticks River National Forest. Jeremy could not assume that he would find any blooms this late in the season but he hoped to be able to find at least some remnants of the lotus plants.
The target he chose to survey first looked to be one of the largest inland bodies of water in Reefers Woods and was located less than a half-mile from the lake’s edge. In actuality, it consisted of a series of interconnected swamps with the outflow of one feeding the next and the next on down the line. When he arrived, Jeremy was surprised to find a very narrow but well beaten path that roughly followed the perimeter of the swamp, though at times it seemed to lead directly into the black water. One such trail came to a dead-end at a pool of water filled with lily pads.
Could it be this easy? he asked himself. Could this be Claire’s lotus?
He had no way of knowing if these were the Reefers Woods variant of the purple lotus or some other run-of-the-mill variety, and frankly, he had no idea how to tell the difference. There did not seem to be any blooms on any of the plants, which had seen better days. No doubt the cold weather killed them off each year, and while it had been a warmer-than-average autumn, the temperature had certainly dropped to or below freezing on several occasions.
Just when he had all but given up on finding any trace of a lotus bloom, Jeremy glimpsed something floating out in the water. Squinting against the morning sun, he strained to discern if it could be what he came to find. It might be nothing more than a curiously-shaped leaf, one of many dead leaves that floated on the surface of the back water. Reaching it would be no simple task but something told him to go for it anyway.
A downed tree bridged the gap between the bank and his objective. Jeremy climbed aboard the trunk and rocked it up and down a time or two. Despite its crumbly-rotten appearance, it seemed sturdy enough. Step by shaky step he inched down the length of the log. After progressing about halfway down the log, the inevitable slip occurred. Jeremy lost his balance and tumbled in. The shock of the icy water induced in him a sharp inhalation, followed up by a long exhaled Ahhhh!
Waist-deep in the water and chilled to the bone, there was nothing left to do but stay the course. Each step propelled Jeremy into slightly deeper water and each step brought the icy liquid in contact with a virgin sliver of his stomach and back. When he could reach it, he gingerly picked the instigating item from the water. Though not attached to any plant, lotus or otherwise, and far from pristine, it did appear to be a flower of some sort. More black than purple, and wilted, Jeremy wondered how his eyes happened to latch onto this and if indeed it could be the source of Monika’s Unreal. He would not know the answer to the latter question until he had time to analyze it back at the Facility. At least he had something to show for his effort.
*****
Knowing exactly which compound he was looking for greatly simplified the analysis. Late Friday night, using an instrument known as the gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer, or GC-MS for short, Jeremy confirmed that the bloom he collected that morning from the swamp did indeed contain a small portion of the compound Jeremy knew as the Unreal. Without a doubt, the source for Monika’s Unreal was Claire’s purple lotus bloom.
All at once, Jeremy made a connection he should have noticed long before now. A common theme of Claire’s paintings was the dark-haired girl-child. While Jeremy could not yet guess what the child represented, he could now extend a theory as to the meaning of the ever-present flower – the purple lotus bloom. What better explained Claire’s preoccupation with the flower except that she knew of its euphoric effects? One could even surmise that this was the reason she established the commune in the first place. Hippies were known for, if not defined by, their desire to experience altered states of consciousness. The Unreal certainly accomplished that end. Jeremy could well understand the appeal of moving into the wilderness with a few like-minded friends to be near the lotus swamps and the Unreal they provided.
The current existence of the Unreal capsules testified that this knowledge of the lotus and its effects did not die with Claire and the hippies. Someone was currently aware that the purple lotus contained a euphoric-inducing drug; that someone also knew how to extract it as the lavender powder with a perfumed smell.
This led Jeremy to the next series of questions. Who bridged the gap? Forty years had passed since Claire first discovered and partook of the lotus. Was the knowledge somehow passed down over all that time or was it lost and later rediscovered? Finally, how was it that Monika seemed to have a steady supply of the Unreal? What was her connection to all of this?
Conceivably, it could be that Monika knew little or nothing of the Unreal’s origin, but this Jeremy doubted. At the bonfire on the secret beach – which, incidentally, was not that far from the lotus swamps – Monika mentioned Claire’s Way. Monika obviously had knowledge of Claire and was familiar enough with Reefers Woods to host the bonfire get-together within its confines. And, she maintained some type of authoritative role over the others who were present at the beach that night. If anyone were handing out capsules of the Unreal that night, it had to be her. All evidence seemed to indicate that Monika knew exactly where the Unreal came from and had ready access to it.
What he did not understand was how Monika became interested in the hippie queen and her lotus in the first place. How did she learn of the special effects of the lotus? Jeremy, too, had worked at digging up any and all information he could discover about the hippie queen and the lotus but he had never run across any reference to its psycho-activity. He only figured it out by starting with the Unreal and working backwards.
Jeremy thought of how Monika introduced him to the burn terminology used when describing the Unreal experience. Because of the perpetuated ghost story, many persons knew of the fiery demise of the commune and that Claire and her friends burned, literally. Might the terminology have been coined in reference to the burning down of the hippie queen commune? Could it be a coincidence?
That he had figured out the connection between the lotus and the Unreal gave Jeremy a giddy satisfaction. He wanted to track down Monika, if only to inform her that her secrets were falling, one by one, but, in light of his obligation to be true to Jinni and to avoid Monika and her temptations, that option was off the table.
But, boy oh boy, wouldn’t I love to see the look on Monika’s face…
During the daylight hours, Jeremy assured himself that all this time and effort spent researching the hippie queen, the Unreal, and now the lotus was harmless. He was, after all, only satisfying his curiosity – a purely intellectual exercise. If anything, his quest had been therapeutic. If not for the distraction it provided, he might have gone mad with only June’s murder and the subsequent police inquisition to dwell upon. Sometimes, however, when the hour was late and his thoughts unfettered, he could not deny that this might only be a justification to pursue Monika and the Unreal.
Could he really hope to ignore the emotional side of this so-called intellectual endeavor, especially when these feelings were intermingled, as they were, with an unhealthy dose of obsession? Simply put, could he tread so closely to the edge of temptation and not go tumbling over?
Chapter 35
Friday, December 5
Jeremy lay alone, spread-eagle in his bed.
All about him, the nighttime world was alive. Jovial ghosts frolicked
on the ceiling and walls, a product of the wind-whipped trees and the light cast by the gothic-styled street lamps on the street below. Directly above, the blades of the ceiling fan stirred the air in endless circles. To Jeremy’s left stood a wall of glass, French doors flanked by windows that opened onto the outside balcony. Wind chimes, a gift from Jinni, trembled in the breeze from their position high on the corner eave. Dissonant notes tinkled forth sporadically, accompanied by the hiss of leaves, dry and dead, swirling on the floor of the balcony.
As Jeremy watched the mesmerizing motion of the silvery gongs and listened to their somber song, his restless mind gravitated to a familiar preoccupation. Try as he might, he could not forget the booty in the back of his sock drawer, that hot coal of smoldering temptation. In spite of his good intentions, the preoccupation turned into anticipation. Tonight, Jeremy knew, the inevitable fire would burn.
After tonight, with the Unreal disposed of, perhaps he could finally cast thoughts of it and Monika aside. One final indulgence, he assured himself, and everything could go back to the way it used to be. After tonight, he would rededicate himself to Jinni.
Jeremy rose in harmony with multiple facsimiles of himself, shadows cast at various angles by the street lamps outside. These human-esce forms joined with and became an essential part of the elaborate bedroom screen show, ever-changing with the other night shadows. Hurrying now, in sharp contrast to the time before spent waiting to fall asleep, Jeremy collected the blue jeans and sweatshirt crumpled on the floor beside the bed. Clothes in hand, he maneuvered across the room, making for the light switch. Blinded by the darkness he snagged his little toe on the leg of his weight bench.
