Breath and Bones

by Susann Cokal

  That wish made her think somewhat wistfully of Heber and his plans to put the future of the Mormons in threads—but no, she would not think of him now, or of Sariah or Myrtice or Sister Birgit, or anyone but herself and Albert. Their future was about to begin, and the only piece of the past that interested her now was hanging in a Greek pawnshop.

  While the traffic roiled and smoked beneath her, Famke stood in the window, watching for Albert and daydreaming about the new paintings for which she might pose. Certainly there would be no more sardines; she would make sure of it. Once again they would take up mythological subjects: mermaids, perhaps, if Albert wanted to continue painting scales and fishtails . . . Or then again, when she was working for Charles Martin du Garde, she had thought of a tableau that would mingle Mormon, Catholic, and classical mythologies in a way that would certainly be novel and striking. In her mind’s picture, a young woman awakened on a bed of clouds to find three creatures before her: an old man, a young man, and a bird that might be either dove or California seagull. The woman, like Paris, was to choose among three deities—for a husband. Whichever she selected, she would be God’s wife, and a flock of ghostly women in warrior helmets waited to dress her for the wedding in a glimmering frock woven of diamonds and pearls. Of course, the waking woman was completely nude, except where the clouds twined lovingly between her legs. Famke thought she might call this The First Bride. Professor du Garde had refused to mount the tableau, fearing that the police would shut down the Thalia if he presented a scene that was not already to be found somewhere out in the world; but perhaps if she described it in the right detail, Albert would paint it. It had so many of the elements he liked.

  Albert. Famke realized she had slid her fingers Down There, where friction had left a red rash; and she withdrew them with a feeling of impatience. It was nearly ten o’clock—what was taking him so long? Was he dawdling, when their whole future and a thousand paintings were waiting to be born? Still thinking of The First Bride, she lay down on the cot and essayed a few poses, trying to imagine which would please Albert best, and which would show most compellingly under his brush. Her breasts must show to advantage, and her nose, and the hair on her head. But there could be no emphasis on that other thatch. Which, Fanden, was becoming most uncomfortable as the shaved hairs pushed inexorably against the chafed skin, trying to grow. It was all but impossible to lie still.

  Suddenly she felt she could not wait a moment longer: She would begin the picture herself. She got up, opened Albert’s bag again, and found a sketchpad and a pencil. With careful, faint lines, she began to sketch out her idea. She drew the woman, the clouds, and the bird, leaving the men and the crowd of Valkyries till later. Albert could certainly fill those in; it was most important to her to get the central figure right. Famke sketched her with long limbs and a bow-shaped mouth, open as if to speak.

  Famke stopped and studied this woman with a critical eye. She looked perhaps too much like a modern girl, a splendid American-Bohemian who would just as soon gulp down a whiskey or swear—loudly. Famke thought this over, then began sketching an antique fullness in the waist and body. Meanwhile, she began to consider new titles: The Bride Awakens to Judgment. The Judgment of Eve. Choosing a Master. Somehow none of these seemed right.

  When the doorknob rattled, Famke ripped out her sketch—The Bride’s Prelude?—and folded it into her fist. She had learned from Hygeia: She would not show her work until it was perfect, and there was still much to do.

  “Darling!” Albert did not notice her movement, but he appeared most excited to see her. “I brought you a frock—though I’d much rather keep you as you are, in that fetching drapery.” As Famke took the parcel from him and went to work on the string, he added, “You should have seen how the clerk stared when I chose women’s clothing.”

  The dress was of coarse cotton and a little too large, but Albert had remembered gloves and stockings and a hat. Famke put them all on and decided she looked good enough, given how she had left Hygiene. At least, she thought, the clothes were blue, even if it was a washed-out color that did not suit her complexion at all. She was in fact surprised he had chosen something so pallid; perhaps he thought it respectable.

  “Very fine,” Albert said when she showed him.

  “I hope you did not spend too much on all of it.” She tugged at the waist in an attempt to make it stay up.

  “Not too much. And I was happy to do it.”

  “Then—” She hesitated, unsure how to tell him what she felt he would want to know. “I hope you might give me six dollars more.” She explained about the Greek store and what she had to redeem there.

  Albert shuddered. “Really, darling, a pawnshop—how sordid.” Then the rest of her speech sank in and he asked, “But you say this is the original Nimue? Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain,” Famke said, taking pleasure in his excitement. He need never know that she was the artist who had applied the last layer of paint; and if he did not like her version of herself, he could always strip it away, along with the layer that was the captain’s mistress. She would not mind. She would be glad to see the real Nimue, the real Famke, again.

  They took a carriage to Acropolis Pawn—but found Hygeia no longer on view. The Greek told them it had sold that very morning.

  “There’s a living waxwork just like it at the theater down the street, miss,” he said, sharpening his moustache; he was much more deferential to Famke now that Albert stood beside her. “I could not keep that painting to myself. Without a frame, even, I sold it for thirty-seven dollars, and the gentleman which bought it had a bargain. But I see you are really fond of this painting,” he said craftily. “If you like, I can get you one just the same. Painted all new. One just like that waxwork.”

  “No,” said Famke. She was too disappointed to argue or ask more questions. “It would not be the same.”

  “Don’t fret, darling.” Albert twined her fingers in his. “I can make a new Nimue, one who looks as she should—like you. Just one commission from Versailles, or two, will set me up with supplies for a year. Let’s go to Hygiene now and defend your innocence.”

  Famke followed him out to the carriage, climbed up onto the high seat, and leaned against the slender portfolio case. If only she were not so tired; if only Albert had allowed her to sleep a little last night, rather than repeatedly demonstrating his joy in finding her again. She stifled a yawn that came out as a mewling sound.

  Albert put his hand in his pocket, reaching for a cheroot and a lucifer, then he broke out in a bright smile that showed all his nearly-white teeth. “Here’s something to cheer your spirits,” he said as the wheels spun their way toward the harbor. He pulled out a silver object, so shiny that at first all Famke saw was a flash of light on Albert’s palm. “I’d nearly forgotten—it’s the twin to our old tinderbox,” he said. “See, the Three Graces—just as we found them in the ruins. I bought this one in Boulder, Colorado. We may not have Nimue back, but we have it.”

  The light spanked off a backward Grace’s bottom. Famke said, with a sense of wonder wakened again, “It is the same box.”

  Albert did not seem to find much of the extraordinary in this coincidence, did not even question how such a thing could be. “You see,” he said, “in the end everything is exactly where it belongs.”

  There was much more that Famke could have told him, but she decided it was hardly worth the effort now. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said merely, and looked out the window for a last glimpse of the city.

  Chapter 59

  If a man cannot stay at home, traveling in a Pullman palace car is the most like staying there of anything in the world.

  BENJ. F. TAYLOR, BETWEEN THE GATES

  A California train is a human museum.

  BENJ. F. TAYLOR, BETWEEN THE GATES

  Edouard was unaware that he was soon to have visitors; and if he had known, he would have declared himself uninterested. He wanted only to walk through his own front door, to let the invisible servants
take his hat and coat and luggage, give him a warm drink, and leave him in peace. He was worn out with cities and with art. He longed for his quiet office with its specimen jars and anatomical drawings, and for the deep peace of the Taj Mahal. But instead here he was, trapped in one corner of a Southern Pacific palace car with the Mormon widow Myrtice Goodhouse Black and the man she had introduced as Mr. Viggo, Ursula’s brother.

  Edouard had naturally been suspicious when these two presented themselves to him. For weeks he had been convinced that his patient had made up her brother from whole cloth; and yet it was impossible now to believe that this open-faced, gentle-mannered Dane was anything else—for he was too polite to be a member of the Dynamite Gang, too uncomplicated to paint better than second-rate art. Pangs of remorse beset Edouard again as he remembered his suspicions. Thus when Mr. Viggo and Mrs. Black explained their errand, Edouard had felt honor bound to buy them tickets to Hygeia Springs so they could collect Ophelia’s—no, Ursula Summerfield’s—few belongings; though really, he thought now, it had been Ursula who took advantage of him, living in his house all those months and profiting from his waters and electricity. Edouard felt very much as if someone owed him a favor. Yet it was he who had responded to the Wanted poster, he who had started the machinery of quest and fulfillment in motion, and now he must see it through. He would let Ursula’s brother and former employer come to Hygeia to collect the contents of her pocket and see what they, who felt they knew her much better than he did, might make of the assorted dingy scraps.

  But what maddening people. They had dithered so long about the travel arrangements and assembling box suppers that it was late afternoon before the four of them managed to climb onto a train. The woman would not stop hinting at her physical discomfort and fatigue, yet she refused any easement; the car’s other occupants, all well dressed, most of them reading newspapers, books, and magazines, occasionally glanced at her with annoyance. And Albert Viggo—Edouard remembered that Ursula had called her brother Albert, though that first name seemed at odds with his last—smelled so strongly of the chemicals used for corpses that Edouard had to keep the window closest to them open, despite the ash and cinders that flew in.

  The wheels roared and the train rocked side to side. Several people dozed, including an infant in a nurse’s arms and a man in a green suit who had climbed on at the last minute. There was a woman who looked something like Ursula up ahead, but when she turned her face toward the light it became plain that she was several years older and did not have anything like Ursula’s refined facial architecture. Edouard decided to nap.

  The train pulled into Fresno City and out again—halfway home. Some miles later, as they were gathering speed, Myrtice cried out in pain. A cinder had flown into her eye.

  The Dane, who had been sitting next to Edouard and politely respecting his wish for silence, took down his black bag and opened it. Edouard saw there were no canvases, sketchbooks, or brushes inside, only bottles of those noxious fluids and a few worn scraps of clothing.

  “You have given up painting, Mr. Viggo?” Indeed, the man’s hands, rummaging among his effects, did not look at all as Edouard imagined an artist’s hands would. Surely the stiffened scars would impede the more delicate movements of the brush. Edouard might suspect Viggo to be as much a fraud as his sister—if he hadn’t had the evidence of that disastrous painting to prove the man existed.

  The man in question fished out a ragged handkerchief and gave it to Myrtice. “I will paint again,” he said, “if there is another death.”

  Edouard found that declaration highly peculiar. But artists were known for unusual behavior and odd aesthetics—second-rate artists perhaps more so than others. Edouard thought incidentally that Albert Viggo looked as if he would make a good sailor or farmer.

  Albert Viggo. A. V. But Ursula had given him a different last name—

  “I am curious about something . . . ,” Edouard began.

  The other man’s attention was on Myrtice, who was dabbing at her eye; she would not allow him to search for the cinder. “No, no,” she said, pulling the lid out by the lashes and sliding the cloth underneath in a savage operation particularly exasperating to Edouard, “I can manage.”

  Without showing a trace of annoyance, Viggo turned to Edouard. “You have a question? Is it about Ursula?”

  Edouard spoke stiffly: “No, Mr. Viggo.” He had in fact made a point of saying as little about Ursula as possible. “I wish to ask about your work. It occurs to me to wonder why you sign your canvases with a—”

  He was not able to finish his question. There was a sudden roar, followed by an earsplitting shriek as the brakeman gave a mighty pull. Everything was flung forward. Myrtice landed in Viggo’s lap. The black bag hit the back of Edouard’s seat, and several bottles broke, soaking his coat and filling the car with overwhelming odors. Screams started up around them; the baby howled.

  “What has happened?” cried Myrtice. She clung to Viggo’s neck.

  Still the machine ground forward, wailing like a dying animal. Now its lament was punctuated with a loud twanging sound. Edouard struggled to tear the coat off his back—the chemicals were burning his skin—while Viggo said calmly, “I believe the rails is going apart.”

  It was true. The metal rails split and the train rushed forward, burying its nose in the dirt. The rear cars rushed to catch up. They knocked against the engine and then, with surprising grace, tipped slowly onto one side.

  When it was over, Edouard lay in a jumble of limbs with Albert Viggo and Myrtice Goodhouse Black. His face was pressed against the window frame, and Viggo had fallen halfway out. Myrtice was crying. “What happened?” she asked again, and then repeated the question hysterically: “What happened what happened what happened what—”

  Far away, someone said: “The Dynamite Gang.”

  In the confusion it occurred to Edouard to wonder, irrelevantly, whether the death Mr. Viggo was waiting for might be his sister’s.

  Chapter 60

  Nobody will ever, by pencil or brush or pen, fairly render the beauty of the mysterious, undefined, undefinable chaparral.

  HELEN HUNT JACKSON, “CALIFORNIA,” IN

  GLIMPSES OF THREE COASTS

  The new Hygeia Springs Institute for Phthisis was now open. Tides of the sick were washing up the mountain, and each train that pulled into nearby Harmsway delivered a new wave bound for the healing waters and fresh air. Famke and Albert stepped off to find that stagecoaches going up the mountain were so in demand that it would be necessary to spend a night in a cramped hotel room.

  Albert first chafed at the delay and then decided it gave him an opportunity. He took her in his arms. Darling, Famke, I—

  As if she heard his unspoken words, she turned her face to his for a kiss; but it was just a kiss like countless others they had exchanged, and she began to move against him until the only words he could say aloud were “Hold still.” Then it was he who moved against her, and he kept the unspoken sentence on his lips. But even at the most intimate moment, he could not bring himself to say it. Words might break the new spell he’d fallen under. He thought then of the Winged Victory; and instantly he shuddered and spent, painting Famke’s womb in a way that was itself most satisfying to him.

  When Albert slid off her, Famke decided it would be safe to move. She rolled as far from Albert as she could and, feeling thwarted herself, did her best . . . The cottager comes home to find his roof is missing, and he must climb up on top. . . but somehow it was not enough. The shimmering sense of longing still persisted, though it was not so pleasant now. She wanted that other feeling, the one that Heber and Edouard knew how to give even without the little stories she told herself. She lay stiff all night, listening to Albert’s snores and dodging the limbs that flailed during his dreams. She thought about The Bride’s Prelude until she was thoroughly sick of it and concluded there was no point mentioning the idea to Albert or anyone. Just a silly woman, she thought. She would probably choose the bird.

&nb
sp; The next morning, the Paradise Hotel lounge was full of hollow-eyed consumptives waiting for stagecoaches, coughing into pocket crachoirs and maddening the hotel staff with requests for cold compresses and draughts of now-famous Hygiene water. Famke and Albert claimed a settee at the far side of the room, as far from the patients as possible. Famke tried to nap, while Albert took out an old journal called The Germ, which declared itself to contain writings of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

  “Darling, wake up. I have been thinking of my next painting,” Albert said, thumbing through the pages. “I’d like to do something with wings—an angel, I think. Listen to this poem:

  The blessed damozel leaned out

  From the gold bar of Heaven;

  Her eyes were deeper than the depth

  Of waters stilled at even.

  ‘Deeper than the depth’—isn’t that pretty? And doesn’t it just describe your eyes?”

  Famke accepted the compliment, nice as it was, with less grace than she might have done if she’d slept. She imagined those words painted around a picture frame, which would of course be gilded—just like the gold bar of Heaven. She had a flash of inspiration. “Maybe I could be leaning out of the picture. You know, over the golden bar.”

  Albert thought this over, mouth pursed in a gesture that reminded her of Myrtice. “I don’t see how it could be done,” he said finally. “A frame is the painting’s limit. But listen to the conclusion:

  And the souls mounting up to God

  Went by her like thin flames.

  That has some possibilities, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe you should write poems,” Famke said. She decided she was tired of discussing art and picked up a copy of Frank Leslie’s to look at the fashion sketches.

  They arrived in Hygiene that evening, to find the hospital’s triple towers lit like beacons and the main street awash with patients. Many of these were too weak to walk and had to be lifted into buggies; nurses had come with wheeling chairs to collect others. Famke saw Miss Pym, or someone who looked very like her, hauling away a man with a beard a bit like Heber’s but the skeletal body of one of Edouard’s anatomical drawings. Some of the worst cases were spitting on the streets, despite an abundance of signs that warned them not to: Everywhere she looked, Famke saw disgusting puddles of red and green and yellow. The sight made her start to cough, if only to avoid being ill there and then herself; and the smell of so many sick people sank deeper into her body.