What I did see, a couple of days later was a newspaper and a photograph of some posh do with various debutantes having a good time.
Alice was one of them. Alice as I’d painted her. No birthmark. Her face was glowing, her joy masking what might otherwise have been a fairly plain face.
“You have an even rarer gift,” said Stanislavski. I pumped him for an explanation and more details, but he just smiled, like a magician determined not to reveal his tricks. I was still puzzling over the mystery a few days later when he came to me again. We had another customer.
She was much like Alice, the girl, from a very well connected family, and with a doting mother who I’d seen somewhere in the society pages.
The girl, Eleanor, also wore a mask, which she took off so that I could study her features. She might have been pretty if it hadn’t been for her eyes. She had some kind of defect that made her squint and the light obviously troubled her.
The flesh under her left eye had pulled up, distorting that side of her face. She coloured deeply as I examined her.
“Just think of Mr Grapelle as a doctor, Eleanor,” said Stanislavski soothingly. “And understand that he is the soul of discretion.”
His words made me uneasy, but I got on with the work and again produced a very good portrait of Eleanor, as she would have looked without the defects.
As with Alice’s portrait, I knew that I had crossed a new boundary. I’d stepped up. The exhilaration outweighed anything else. Afterwards I celebrated with Stanislavski.
Eleanor and her mother were blown away and there were a few tears. They took the painting and left. Stanislavski preened himself. “Such power, Louis! You’re more of a master than I could have hoped.”
I’d put the bizarre incident with Alice out of my mind, but a few days later I came across Stanislavski in his study. He was looking at a painting he’d set on an easel. He frowned momentarily as he saw me at the door, but then his expression changed and he waved me in good-naturedly.
I flinched when I saw the painting. My painting. Of Eleanor. Except that, like Alice’s, it had changed and was now a perfect representation of her as she was in life. The eyes, the strange squint, the creases in the facial flesh, were all there in complete detail. I gaped at Stanislavski, who just shrugged.
“Who is doing this?” I snapped at him.
“You are the artist, Louis. I swear to you, no one else has put as much as a brush stroke on this canvas.”
“I did not paint that!”
“You paint the truth, Louis. No one does it better. You have a sublime eye.”
“What about Eleanor?”
“She has never been happier. She adored the painting you did of her. It was a perfect likeness.”
“As she is now?”
“Of course. I gave you the gift. You transform your subjects – quite literally. You will be well rewarded. Your reputation will soar. Already there is international interest in your work. I believe the expression is - the world is to be your oyster.”
Yeah, that was the bait, wasn’t it?
Fame, success, producing my best work. I did other pictures, landscapes, still life, and although I never got the same kick as I did out of portraits, they sold very well and Stanislavski was right about my reputation being enhanced.
The money that came in was frightening. It eased my conscience about the two girls. So what had I done? Broken some law of biology? Was it a trick? Something only Stanislavski could manipulate with his contacts? I didn’t expect to see the two girls again, so maybe I shouldn’t worry about it. Take the money and be grateful. After all, those girls were never happier.
The third customer was a young man.
He’d been in the army, serving out in some godforsaken desert. A land mine had taken his right leg off. His father, a Brigadier, was a member of the same circle as Stanislavski’s other moneyed contacts. I didn’t get to see him, but Ronnie was a pretty tough cookie on his own. He had a rugged, good-looking face, still tanned, though he’d not been back to the desert since he’d come home.
Stanislavski had prepared the studio himself. He wanted me to paint Ronnie in his shorts, so that the artificial leg would be revealed, not masked discreetly by the immaculately tailored trousers the soldier wore.
In my mind, I knew what Stanislavski wanted from this session. I thought he must be crazy. Okay, so he’d somehow worked a trick with the two faces. But this?
Anyway, I got on with the commission and did a full body portrait of Ronnie, his uniform draped across a chair behind him and a Union Jack flag forming part of the backdrop.
I said nothing to Ronnie as I replaced his artificial leg in the painting with the leg he would have had before the accident.
When I had finished, the painting was as good a work as I could manage. Whatever misgivings I might have had were buried under my instincts when I had a brush in my hand. I had to paint.
It was that simple.
Ronnie went away happy. Like the two girls, he didn’t have much to say for himself. Like Stanislavski had said, they had to think of me as a doctor, impersonal and detached.
I didn’t care about that – I didn’t want to get involved with them. Being compared to a doctor – or surgeon – was more unnerving.
If I thought what I was doing was unnatural, my misgivings were underlined soon after Ronnie took his painting away.
The day came when Stanislavski summoned me to his study. He was normally a cool sod, very smooth and unmoved by most things. This time he was agitated, excited, his face lit up. I could see why at once – he had another painting up on the easel. He waved me to it as if he was introducing another aristocrat.
I approached the picture uneasily.
It was Ronnie.
The Ronnie I had restored in my painting. This painting depicted him with his artificial leg, clearly visible in contrast to his otherwise perfectly muscled body. I studied it closely, knowing better than to ask Stanislavski who the hell had done this to my picture. I could see the brush strokes, the style, and every nuance of the artist. They were my own. It was as though I had done the painting without knowing it.
“I’ve had a phone call from the Brigadier,” said Stanislavski. “He says Ronnie is in the peak of health. Fitter and stronger than ever.”
“Physically changed? It’s not possible.”
Stanislavski shook his head. “It is unique, Louis. Only you can do this.”
I shook my head. Thinking about this would just send me nuts. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. This was real. Impossible, but real.
“Take a break,” said Stanislavski. “Go abroad for a while. Go to Italy, see some of the beautiful cities and the work of their artists. Be inspired! When you come back, I have a new task for you.”
His expression betrayed something, but it was no more than fleeting. I knew his face well enough, and I’d studied human expressions thoroughly. Part of my skill was to get under the mask and find the emotions that were waiting.
So I knew Stanislavski was troubled.
I was glad to do as he suggested and went off to do a bit of touring around, mostly Italy, where I did a few preliminary sketches for landscapes, though I was beginning to find that they didn’t whet my appetite in the same way that portraits did. It was as if I had developed an addiction, a need to paint people, a new driving force motivating me. Part of Stanislavski’s gift, I supposed.
When I got home, he was ready to begin anew, impatiently so.
“You’ve done superbly so far,” he told me as we sat drinking cognac in his library, the room in which he was normally at his most relaxed.
Even two liberal glasses of the brandy hadn’t got him relaxed tonight. “Now comes a more difficult task. Less savoury.”
I may have been a bit numbed myself, so I just shrugged. I’d had a good holiday. My bank balanced was ludicrously healthy and tomorrow I could indulge myself in my art. What more could a young guy like me want from life?
“Your ability to change peo
ple’s lives through your portraits is a double-edged sword, Louis. You can turn a Cinderella into a princess. A frog into a prince. You know that. It amazes you, even disturbs you, but that is art. It cannot be defined. One cannot analyse it and reproduce it at will, otherwise we would have an entire world of brilliant artists. One has to accept it for what it is, however magical it may seem.”
I nodded, sipping the cognac. Accept it, yes. My talent was too valuable to dissect or challenge. I just wanted to get on with it. “So what’s next? What’s this unsavoury task?”
“You have to turn Beauty into the Beast. Reverse the process you have demonstrated so aptly. Your next subject does not suffer from blemishes. Far from it. Indeed, he is a fine specimen of a man. Few men are as handsome: he is adored by men and women alike.”
His implications hadn’t sunk in at that point. I was a little drunk. “Sounds fine. So it’s a straight portrait, no need for the usual adjustments?”
He shook his head. “Not the usual adjustments, no. And you’ll have to paint him from photographs. I assume that will not be a problem?”
“No, I can work from photos. I’ll need them taken from as many angles as possible.”
“Of course. All our work together is reaching its fruition, my friend.”
I felt an urge to be rebellious – maybe it was the cognac. I was beginning to resent the feeling of being his puppet. “Tell me something, Stanislavski, why did you choose me for this? If you’ve got some kind of supernatural power, why didn’t you do this yourself? Why me?”
“The drink has made you bold.” He managed a smile, but it wasn’t reassuring. “Never mind. In the morning, when we are both fresher, I will answer you. Let us retire for the night.”
Next day I had breakfast with him. We made small talk, both knowing that something far more important was on our minds, but prepared to wait until we’d eaten. Afterwards he took me to a small gallery, where a dozen or more portraits had been hung up. I didn’t recognise any of the faces. They were pretty mundane subjects.
“Tell me what you think of these,” said Stanislavski. There were a couple of chairs set to one side and he sat down. “Take your time. Give me an honest appraisal.”
I walked around the room, studying each picture. It didn’t need an expert to tell that they were average, uninspired. Not the work of anyone special. I would have condemned them as being okay for a quick, cheap sale, but something warned me to be a shade more discreet.
“They’re good,” I said. “One or two are very good. Pretty fair likenesses, I would guess. But there are hundreds of artists who can do this sort of thing.”
For a moment something in his eyes burned, his face cold, almost hostile. He nodded curtly and stood. “Exactly so. You asked me last night why I chose you. Why did I not undertake my work myself? Around you is your answer. These are my paintings. Passable, but totally inadequate. You, however, have the raw material so obviously missing in me. Without that, the other will not work. Does that answer your question?”
I said it did, but I was uncomfortable.
He changed the subject as we left the gallery and went down into his study. He pulled out a file from a drawer and gave it to me.
Opening it, I found several dozen photos. They’d been taken over a period of years and were all of a man, a record of his life from the age of about fifteen onwards.
The last photo showed him at about ten years older. I didn’t recognise him, but I had the vague feeling that I knew him. An actor? Someone in the public eye? He was markedly handsome, and had a perfect physique.
“Richard Claremont,” said Stanislavski. “A fine athlete. He plays rugby union for a top French club. He is on the brink of selection for the international team. I know his father, Alexander, well. I have done since we were young men. We were always great rivals. Always getting the better of each other until he won the final hand. He took from me the one thing I desired above all others.” He had rarely said much during our association about himself or his past, so it was unusual for him to be this forthright.
I waited in silence, knowing there would be more.
“We both loved a beautiful girl, Irena. She was the toast of society, both in Europe and here in Britain. Claremont and I were part of that culture, both eminently successful men, and powerful. Irena was understandably fascinated by us both and we simultaneously determined that we would marry her. I underestimated Claremont. He was more ruthless than I. A lesson I learned well but too late. He used certain things against me, things from my past, my relationships, my role in politics, knowing that Irena and her family would not approve. Indeed, it was enough to discredit me with her.”
“She married Claremont,” I said for him.
He nodded, stiffening as though the words still cut him deeply. “She married him and bore him a son. She died giving birth to Richard. The son that I should have had. He is like his mother. I have watched his progress in life.” He indicated the photos. “I have had many photos taken of him.”
I didn’t comment. This was getting weird. Losing the woman had done something to his mind.
“I never found another like Irena. She was the only woman I ever loved. I imagine that sounds terribly melodramatic to you, Louis. I wonder if the youth of today understand such things. I was admittedly, sentimental. However, I had that torn from me. I met Richard Claremont through my usual circles. His father and I have not had anything to do with each other since Irena’s death.
“Richard is arrogant and self-obsessed. He treated me with discourtesy and disdain. He is unworthy of Irena’s blood line. He deserves to be put in his place. His father, of course, encourages him and thinks he is wonderful, a future star in the sporting world. I watch them both rise and I hear Irena twist and turn in her grave. Perhaps it has made me a little insane, eh, my friend?”
“I can understand your anger. You’ve had a raw deal.”
“Yes, in some ways, Louis, I have. In others, however, I have been more fortunate. I have steeped myself in study. Oh, I am no misanthropist, but I have had more time than most to devote myself to learning, and I have acquired a great deal of knowledge. I have mastered many arts.”
“And now you want me to paint Richard Claremont.” It was clear to me now exactly what that meant – the unsavoury task he’d mentioned the previous night.
He wanted me to paint the rugby player with some kind of physical defect, in his legs perhaps, that would put an end to his career. Paint it and then read about how it had transferred from canvas to flesh, the reverse of what I’d done with the others.
Ludicrous, but frighteningly real.
It wasn’t quite what Stanislavski had in mind. His revenge was to be a lot crueller.
“Begin at once,” he said. “You have everything you need?”
I leafed through the photographs. “What sort of portrait do you want?”
“Head and shoulders will suffice.”
“Okay.” I thought about refusing. If I really had the power somehow to inflict damaging physical changes on people, however mad that sounded, it was wrong.
A criminal act.
Even if no one could ever prove it, it would be on my conscience. All my money would be blood money, pay for an assassin. It was okay doing the good deeds, but this was nasty. I was no saint, but this wasn’t right.
“Don’t disappoint me, Louis,” he said and there was steel in his tone. “You need have no misgivings about this. Richard Claremont deserves his fate.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I want you to change his face. His beautiful, Adonis-like features that inspire such desire in men and women alike. Alter it. Make it – hideous.”
He went to another drawer and pulled out some magazines. To my surprise they were comics, ghoulish things, their covers graced with monstrous creatures, zombies, mutants and such like. Stanislavski had got hold of some really grotesque stuff. Seemed to me they were completely incongruous.
“Here,” he said. “This is
the sort of thing. Paint Richard Claremont like one of these. It must be recognisable as him, but vile.”
It seemed almost laughable. “These are caricatures. If I paint something like this, you can’t tell me that Claremont will become one of them? That is insane.”
“Use your art. Make the picture credible. You have the skill, Louis. Tone it down. Do this, just the one time. Afterwards you can concentrate on other things and paint whatever suits you.”
He left me soon after. Although I’d said I couldn’t believe that whatever I produced would alter Richard Claremont, the seeds of doubt were sown.
I’d changed the other subjects. God knew how, but I had. I looked at the comics. I had never liked the things, even as a kid. They’d always seemed so far removed from reality, an escape into some sort of paranoid universe.
Looking at them more closely I could see that the artists were competent – more than that, they were skilful. I could understand people’s fascination with such things. Those artists had twisted their subjects, but they had attempted to base even that lunacy in reality. The best of them achieved that.
I put them aside. I knew what was needed. Just once, he’d said. One final act of revenge on his part, through me.
And if I refused? I could imagine.
I’d be washed up.
Stanislavski had influence everywhere. He’d have me reduced to rags in no time. I’d be a pariah. I couldn’t face that. Not now, with so much more to come. Positive stuff. What would one negative painting mean?
A painting that no one would ever see. And of course, if it changed and became a true picture of Claremont, no one could possibly imagine what had really happened.
I’d talked myself into it. My creative drive did the rest.
I painted Richard Claremont and I made his face truly terrible: not a parody or a caricature.
Twisted, contorted, as if by some real disease, something from the reality of nature’s indifferent spite.
When it was done I felt drained, yet somehow elated, as if I had created something unique. My subject stared out at me from the canvas, his eyes full of sorrow and terror, as if he would rush for the darkness to hide himself.
Masks Page 18
