The letter that had arrived in Isabelle’s mail this morning made a lie of that claim now.
There is no hope, there is no real happiness. At the end, nobody really lives happily ever after, because nobody lives forever and underneath the happiness there’s always pain.
The moon rose as she sat there, picking out the caps of the waves and emphasizing their whiteness with the pale fire of its light. Isabelle looked down at the key lying in the palm of her hand.
She didn’t know if she’d ever have enough courage to go see what that locker held. Logically, she knew that the bus-depot management should have opened it years ago; whatever Kathy had left her should be long gone. But with Kathy, all things had been possible. Except in the end. There’d been no rescue possible, no salvation pulled out of the hat at the last possible moment.
That one failure notwithstanding, Isabelle knew that something waited for her at the Newford Bus Terminal. The years it had waited there would make no difference. But after the arrival of Kathy’s letter, she wasn’t sure she could muster the strength to find out what it was.
Baiting The Hook
Great art is as irrational as great music. It is mad with its own loveliness.
—Attributed to George Jean Nathan
I
Newford, September 1973
He was the ugliest man Izzy had ever seen. Not homely. It was more as though he were a troll that had climbed cautiously out from under the shadows of his bridge only to find that the sun was a lie. It couldn’t turn him to stone. It could only reveal him for what he was, and since his ugliness was something he had obviously come to terms with, what did he have left to fear? So he carried himself like a prince, for all his tattered clothes and air of poverty.
But he was a troll all the same. Shorter than Izzy’s own five-three, he seemed to be as wide as he was tall. His back was slightly hunched, his chest like an enormous barrel, arms as thick as Izzy’s thighs, legs like two tree stumps. His ears were no more than clumps of flesh attached to either side of his head; nose broken more than once, too long in length and too wide where the nostrils flared like ferryboat hawseholes; lips too thick, mouth too large, forehead too broad, hairline receding; hair matted and wild as the roots of an upturned oak. It appeared to be so long since he’d washed that the grime worked into the cracks of his skin was the color of soot.
Under the same close scrutiny, his wardrobe didn’t fare any better. The heavy black workboots had holes in the leather and the left one had no laces; his trousers were a muddy brown color and bore so many patches that it was difficult to tell what the original material had been; the white shirt was grey, black around the neck; the long soiled trenchcoat trailed behind him on the ground, its hem filthy with dried mud and grime, its sleeves raggedly torn off to fit his short arms.
Now in her second year of city life, Izzy had become as blase toward some of the more outlandish street characters as were the longtime local residents, but the sight of this troll, shambling along the sunny steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, simply astounded her for its incongruity. He was obviously destitute, yet there he was, feeding the pigeons French fries. At times whole clouds of them would rise up and around him, as though circling a gargoyle in a bell tower. But always they returned to the scraps he tossed them.
Always he maintained control.
The moment was such that Izzy couldn’t pass it by. She sat down on the bench at the nearby bus stop. Surreptitiously, she took a stub of a pencil out of her black shoulder bag, then fished around for something to draw on. The back of the envelope containing an overdue phone bill was the first thing that came to hand. Quickly she began to sketch the scene, starting with bold lines before filling in the details and contrasts with finer lines and shading.
When he stood up and scuffled away—French-fry container empty, his admiring feathered courtiers all fled—she had enough on paper and in her head that she knew she’d be able to finish the piece from memory. Bent over the envelope, pencil scribbling furiously to capture the sweep of steps and shadowed bulk of the cathedral which had been behind him, she was completely unaware of his approach until a large dirty hand fell upon her shoulder.
She cried out, dropping pencil and envelope as she twisted out of his grip. They both reached down for the envelope, but he was quicker.
“Hrmph,” he said, studying the drawing.
Izzy wasn’t sure if the sound he’d made was a comment, or if he was just clearing his throat. What she was really thinking about was how odd it was that he didn’t stink. He didn’t smell at all, except for what seemed like a faint whiff of pepper.
Looking away from the envelope, his gaze traveled up and down the length of her body as though he could see straight through her clothes—black jeans, black T-shirt, black wool sweater were all peeled away under that scrutiny. She hadn’t noticed his eyes before, hidden as they’d been under the shadows of his bushy brows, but they pierced her now, pale, pale blue, two needles pinning a black butterfly to a board.
Izzy shivered. She reached for her envelope, wanting to just have it and flee, but he held it out of her reach, that cool needle gaze finally reaching her face.
“You’ll do,” he said in a voice like gravel rattling around at the bottom of an iron pail. A troll voice.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, you’ll do. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’ll learn.”
Before she could frame a reply to that he dug about in the pocket of his trenchcoat with his free hand and produced a business card, its smooth, white surface as soiled as his shirt. She accepted the card when he handed it to her before she realized what she was doing, and then it was too late. The grubby thing was already touching her thumb and fingers, spreading its germs. She looked down and read:
VINCENT ADJANI RUSHKIN
48-B STANTON STREET
223-2323
“I’ll expect you tomorrow morning,” he said. “At eight A.M. Please be prompt.”
The intensity of his gaze was so mesmerizing that Izzy found herself nodding in agreement before she remembered she had an eight-thirty class tomorrow morning. And besides that, she added, shaking her head to clear it, what made him think that she would ever want to see him again anyway?
“Hey, wait a minute,” she said as he began to turn away.
“Yes?”
He might be a misshapen troll, Izzy thought, with a voice to match, but he certainly had the air of royalty about him. He spoke with the certainty that whatever his demands, they would instantly be met.
And with that blue gaze of his pinning her, Izzy found herself unable to tell him exactly where he could stick his expectations.
“My, uh, drawing” was all she could manage.
“Yes?”
“I’d like it back.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But—”
“Call me superstitious,” he said, a smile crinkling his features until they were uglier than ever, “but my primitive side doesn’t hold with allowing anyone to walk off with an image of me, be it a photograph or—” He held up her drawing.
rendering. It feels too much as though they have acquired a piece of my soul.”
“Oh.”
“A disturbing prospect, don’t you think?”
“I suppose ...”
“Fine. So until tomorrow. Eight, sharp. And don’t bother to bring any equipment,” he added. “Before I can teach you a thing I’ll have to empty your head of all the nonsense you’ve already no doubt acquired.”
Izzy watched him stuff her sketch into his pocket and let him walk away with it without further protest. She looked down at what she’d gotten in exchange for the drawing. This time the name registered.
“Rushkin?” she said softly.
She lifted her head quickly, but her troll had vanished into the afternoon crowds and was nowhere to be seen. Slowly s
he went back over the whole odd encounter, considering his side of the conversation under an entirely new light. She’d just met Vincent Adjani Rushkin—the Vincent Adjani Rushkin. The most respected old-school artist in Newford wanted to give her lessons?
It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible could it?
II
... and then he just vanished,” Izzy said in conclusion.
Kathy gave her a lazy smile. “What? Like in a puff of smoke?”
“No. Into the crowd. You know what it’s like around St. Paul’s at lunch-time.”
Izzy had found her roommate in the middle of hennaing her hair when she got back to the room they shared in Karizen Hall. From their window they had a view of the university library and what Kathy called the Wild Acre—a tangle of unkempt vegetation that spread between the two buildings and was overseen by a giant oak tree. The windowsill was wide enough to sit in and Izzy stretched out along its length, watching two red squirrels argue over an apple core while she related the afternoon’s adventure.
Kathy moved from the sink to her bed, where she valiantly tried to maintain some control over the green muck that kept trying to leak out from under the Saran Wrap cap holding the henna mixture in place on top of her head.
Izzy turned from the view to look at her roommate.
“You’re leaking again,” she said. “Just by your left ear.”
“Thanks.”
“So what do you think?”
“What’s to think?” Kathy asked. “You should go. Do you know anybody else who ever got the chance to study under Rushkin?”
“If it even was Rushkin,” Izzy said.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why would he be interested in me?”
“Because you’re brilliant,” Kathy said. “Any fool can see that. And he’s obviously no fool.”
“Yeah, right.”
Kathy put on what was supposed to be a fierce frown, but whatever she did with her features under that cap of green mud and Saran Wrap could only look silly. “Just go,” she said as Izzy started to giggle.
“But I’ve got a class.”
“So skip it.”
Izzy sighed. It was easy for Kathy to say. Whenever Izzy did anything that wasn’t related to schoolwork, she felt guilty. The only reason she could afford to go to Butler U. was because of her scholarship and the money she’d saved from working at the marina during summer vacations. It wasn’t as though her parents approved, but then they had never approved of anything she did. Sometimes she wondered which was worse: having no family like Kathy, or having one such as her own.
“It’s probably just a joke,” she said finally. At Kathy’s raised eyebrows, she went on. “He just didn’t look right.”
“Oh, I see. Artists are all supposed to be tall and handsome, right?”
“Well, no. But he looked so ... uncouth. Why would Rushkin of all people go around like a dirty beggar looking for a handout?”
“Personally,” Kathy said, “I think you’re all mad. But that’s part and parcel of being an artistic genius, isn’t it? There’s not really that much difference between cutting off your own ear or having pretensions of poverty with an aversion to clean clothes and bathwater. Neither makes much sense.”
Izzy shrugged. “I suppose. I never have seen a picture of him. Actually, I’ve never even read anything about him. All the books just talk about his art and show reproductions of the paintings.”
“If it really was Rushkin you met,” Kathy said, “then someone’s working damage control. It’s all public relations. His agent probably doesn’t let anyone know anything about him. Who’d want to buy fine art from some smelly bum?” A sudden thought came to her and she pointed a finger at Izzy. “Hey, you could write an expose.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then at least go and see if it really is him,” Kathy said. “Though maybe you’re right to be cautious,”
she added with a teasing smile in her eyes. “I mean, would it even be worthwhile to study under him if he really was Rushkin?”
“Oh god. I’ve never heard of anybody who has studied with him. It’s not like he lectures or gives workshops or anything. But it’s like you said: the man’s an absolute genius.”
“So you’d learn something?”
“I’m not even good enough to sweep up his studio! But the things I could learn, just by watching him work ...”
“I hate it when you put yourself down,” Kathy said. “Look at this,” she went on, indicating the sketch that Izzy had done of Rushkin as soon as she’d come back to their room. Izzy had been working on it while Kathy finished gooping her hair.
“Whoops,” Kathy said. She tried to dab up the bit of green mud that she’d dropped onto the drawing and only succeeded in smearing it more. “Sony.”
“That’s okay. It’s not like it was really any good or anything.”
“There you go again! I may not be an artist, but I’ve got eyes; I know what’s good and you’re good.”
A blush rose up the back of Izzy’s neck and she smiled self-consciously. “My own private cheering section,” she said. “If only you were an art critic.”
“Who listens to critics?”
“Gallery owners. Museum curators. People looking for an investment.”
“So screw ’em.”
“Now, there we agree,” Izzy said.
“And we’ve got history to back us up,” Kathy added.
“What do you mean?”
“Anybody can reel off a half-dozen famous artists from a hundred years ago, but how many critics can the average person name?”
“I never thought of it like that.”
Kathy smiled. “Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I may have green mud all over my hair, but I still have wisdom to impart.”
“I do listen,” Izzy said.
“So you’ll go?” Kathy asked.
“To Rushkin’s studio?”
Kathy nodded.
“How could I not go?” Izzy said.
III
At ten to eight the next morning, Izzy stood on the pavement in front of 48 Stanton Street and looked up at the imposing Tudor-style house, reassured by the respectability of the neighborhood. Although she’d been told not to bring any supplies, she’d still thrown a few things into her knapsack before leaving the dorm: sketch pad, pencils, brushes, paints and two nine-by-twelve pieces of hardboard that she’d primed with gesso the night before. Gathering her courage, she went up the walk and onto the porch, where she quickly pressed the bell before she could change her mind and flee. A dark-haired woman in her forties answered the door. She held her bathrobe closed with one hand and regarded Izzy through the foot-wide crack in the door.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m, um, here to see Mr. Rushkin.”
“Oh, you want 48-B.” At Izzy’s blank look the woman added, “That’s the coach house around back. But don’t bother ringing the bell—he never answers it. Just go up the fire escape and hammer on the studio door.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, but the woman had already closed the door.
Well, at least she now knew that yesterday’s odd encounter had really been with Rushkin. She wasn’t sure if she was happy or not about that. The idea of studying under him was so intimidating. What if, when he saw her at his door today, he told her that he’d changed his mind? What if the first thing she tried to do was so pathetic that he just threw her out of his studio?
If it wasn’t for how much Kathy would rag her, she was almost tempted to just forget about it and go to the class she was skipping. But now that she knew it really was Rushkin, she couldn’t not go. He might throw her out, he might laugh at what she could do, but if he didn’t, if he actually did let her study under him
Shifting her knapsack into a more comfortable position, she stepped off the porch and back onto the pavement. Turning down the lane the woman had indicated, she found the coach house situated behind the hous
e. Set beside the old carriage lane that ran behind Stanton Street, the building had a fieldstone foundation, wooden siding and a red shingled roof that was covered with vines. It made such a pretty picture, with its unruly tangle of a garden out front and the old oak that stood south of the building, that Izzy had to stop herself from pulling out her sketch pad and making a drawing of it on the spot.
Resolutely, she made straight for the fire escape and went up to the landing, where she knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. Izzy looked nervously around, then knocked harder.
Remembering what the woman had told her, she gave the door a couple of good hard bangs with the heel of her fist. She had her arm upraised and was about to give it one last attempt when the door was suddenly flung open and she found herself staring into the glaring features of yesterday’s troll.
“Yes?” he shouted, voice still deep and gravelly. Then his gaze rose to her face. “Oh, it’s you.”
Izzy lowered her hand. “You ... you said I should—”
“Yes, yes. Come in.”
He took her by the arm and as much hauled her as ushered her inside. Sniffing, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his free arm. His shirt was as dirty as it had been yesterday, his trousers as patched and threadbare, and he still looked as though he hadn’t had a bath in weeks, but Izzy found herself viewing it all differently now. He really was Rushkin. He was a genius and geniuses were allowed their eccentricities.
“You’re prompt,” he said, letting her go. “That’s good. A point in your favor. Now take off your clothes.”
“What?”
He glared at her. “I’m sure I told you yesterday how I don’t like to repeat myself.”
“Yes, but ... you said you were going to—”
“Teach you. I know. I’m not senile. I haven’t forgotten. But first I want to paint you. So take your clothes off.”
He turned away, leaving her at the door, and Izzy finally got a good look at where she was. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. The studio was as cluttered and shabby as the artist himself, but that made no difference whatsoever because everywhere she looked were paintings and drawings, a stunning gallery of work, each of which bore Rushkin’s unmistakable touch. Along the walls, canvases leaned against each other, seven to eight paintings deep. Studies and sketches were tacked haphazardly onto the walls or lay scattered in unruly piles on every available surface. She couldn’t believe the way such priceless treasures were being treated and was torn between wanting to pore over each one and to straighten the mess so that the work was stored with the respect it deserved.
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