The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  I let myself get lost, walking until my legs hurt. I don’t know what I was thinking about, but I felt myself disappear into the rainy city. There were funny buses and beautiful buildings; cars came at me from the wrong side. At some point I found myself walking through the Wellington Arch. I read the names of the battles: Tobruk, Ypres, Khartoum. So much death, so much murder. She had seen it all, caused it all. I went into a pub to consult my map, use the bathroom, have a beer and then a few more. I smoked more cigarettes. The beer made the smoke go down easier.

  It was raining harder when I got out of the pub. I put my head down and walked. I was about ten blocks from the hotel when I entered another pub to use the bathroom again, to warm up, and to have more beer.

  At last the bartender said, “Hurry up, please, it’s time,” just like in the poem. That struck me as comic.

  When I got to the hotel I leaned on the doorbell for a little too long to summon the Serbian girl who worked the night desk. She was so pretty that I wondered if she had come to London to be a model, or maybe an actress. There was something about her eyes, I thought, that almost reminded me of Helen. I tried to imagine what she thought about, staying awake all night at the desk of a cheap hotel. Did she get lonely? I can’t quite remember what I said to her, but the way she looked at me as she silently handed me my key is inscribed in my mind. I went up the stairs, a trail of water dripping from my raincoat. It took two tries before I got my key into the door. I let my wet clothes fall to the floor and crawled into bed.

  . 34 .

  BECAUSE SO MANY of the people that Stokes sold off his art collection to were Americans Gina spent more time in New York. At first she stayed with her mother, but the way her mother careened from one crisis to another made it difficult to get anything done. One day, however, Bryce handed Gina the key to a studio apartment on Sixty-seventh Street. No one, he said, was using it, and she was welcome to stay there; no other explanation was offered. It was simply but tastefully furnished, with only two or three paintings hanging on the walls. One of them was a small early Matisse.

  She spent most of her time going through records and archives associated with art dealers who were active in the years between the world wars. It was frustrating work, since she could not tell anyone what she was looking for and most of the records were long gone, the galleries having disappeared or merged with other firms.

  She had been in New York for about a month when she began one of their regular meetings by reminding Bryce that he had once said that they had competitors who were looking for the same thing as themselves.

  “But you had predecessors as well,” she said. “Look at this.”

  Birch Lodge

  Saranac Lake, New York

  October 19, 1929

  Dear Ozzie:

  I have finally gotten rid of the insufferable Mrs. R. She is a harmless soul, I suppose, but there is something criminally insipid about her. She is a good-looking woman, or she was once, but after spending an eternity with her in a parlor car, she hardly seems as attractive as everyone says. You told me she wanted a friend, but the wanting is so obvious, making love to her in the way that we genteel women do feels like taking candy from a baby.

  But she is off to bed, performing, I suppose, her conjugal duties. I have been told that Rhinebeck is a lecherous old goat, and although his enthusiasm at seeing his beloved spouse and her clever friend (or so she characterizes me) was muted at best, I suspect he will make the most of the situation and get from his wife what wives are supposed to provide. He is, however, a good deal more handsome than the photographs I have seen suggested. Or perhaps it is his money; I have always found that it does wonders for a man’s looks. So if it becomes necessary to serve the cause on my back, or in some more Continental posture, it will be less grim than I had feared.

  From some hints dropped by Mrs. R., I have the impression that the intimate relations between my hosts are not all that they could be. I am quite sure that Mrs. R. is unaware of all the details that you have provided, but she knows that there is something rotten in the Rhinebeck Denmark. And she doesn’t, poor thing, have the faintest inkling of how to make it right. I saw enough in Rhinebeck’s eyes (and in the way that his gaze fixed on a negligently fastened button) to suggest that the way to his heart is not through his stomach. I doubt, from certain hints that Mrs. R. gave before the train had even left the metropolitan area, that she has much enthusiasm for the kinds of things that will keep a man like Rhinebeck interested.

  As for this place—it is everything that money and good taste can achieve. It is all done up in “Adirondack” style, a charming and expensive version of American pastoral, forest division. Stuffed animals of every description hang from the walls, making the place a very paradise of slaughter. The rooms are light and airy, with wonderful views of the lake or the forest. Each room contains a fireplace, framed by artful masonry made from the local stones.

  We arrived just at sunset, and Rhinebeck took us out onto a balcony. “You have come just in time,” he said. We admired the view; the trees on both shores of the lake were brilliant in yellow, orange, red, and green. Suddenly the declining rays of the sun infused the trees on the island across from us with an impossible richness. The light seemed to dance on the gray-blue water. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was a sliver of silver moon hanging in the perfectly blue sky. “Every evening when the sky is clear,” Rhinebeck said, “I am treated to this sight. Is it not wonderful?”

  Mrs. R. wept at the beauty of it all, or so she said, but I think her tears came from realizing how much her husband had been hiding from her. It is some measure of her acuity that an inkling of the truth dawned on her only then; most women would have thought it odd some time sooner that her husband had built a pleasure palace from which she was explicitly excluded!

  After we had admired the view and had been given a chance to freshen up, we went to dinner. Rhinebeck so contrives things that the house staff is almost invisible, but shortly after we sat down, a plain old woman appeared, carrying a tray loaded down with venison, roast potatoes, red cabbage, and freshly baked bread. Rhinebeck managed the wine himself, apologizing as he did so for the “rough ways” of the North Country. But it was all a pretense, because I doubt that a finer plate of food could be had anywhere in the environs of Herald Square. And as for the wine—well, it was a Château Margaux from before the war, and there are few finer bottles to be had anywhere in the city.

  We spoke primarily about hunting (an oddly appropriate topic, given my mission!). We started on it when I remarked that it was a bit eerie to be sitting down to eat the flesh of animals while stuffed versions of those animals, their eyes glittering in the firelight, looked down on us. Rhinebeck then told us a gruesome story about the killing of our supper and concluded with the typical remarks of a man of his class, viz. that it is important to see the facts for what they are, important to look life squarely in the eye, no good taking a sentimental view and so forth. He said he had hitherto excluded all women from Birch Lodge because he wanted to have at least one place where he was safe from female softness, although, if Miss Deventer is to be credited, he made an exception for her soft female form.

  At dessert (a most delicious tart of wild blueberries), he seemed to relent. “Come,” he said, “I will show you my Snuggery and give you, even though you are ladies, a glass of port.” He then led the way to a room we hadn’t seen before—the most marvelous room in the whole marvelous place. It was warm, cozy, delightful, and grand all at once. There was a comfortable sofa covered with sheepskins and a few easy chairs in front of a large fireplace in which a bright fire was burning. A card table was off to one side, a handsome desk on the other. There was a curious cabinet, decorated with a hunting scene of inlaid wood, and bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. There were three or four wonderful landscapes on the walls, including a gorgeous Corot that would fetch you a pretty penny if you could only get your hands on it. There were decanters of wine and other spirits on a sideb
oard. The whole room smelled pleasantly of firewood and cigar smoke.

  He settled us down on the sofa so that we were facing the curious cabinet and handed us each a glass of the most delicious port I have ever tasted. Rhinebeck stood in front of the cabinet and looked down at us with what I thought was a smug and self-satisfied air.

  “Now that you have seen this room and tasted this port,” he said, “only one thing remains before you will have penetrated to the very heart of the mysteries of Birch Lodge.”

  He opened the cabinet with a flourish, as if he were the proprietor of a raree show. Inside was a lovely Renoir nude, one of those big pink ones. There are flowers on the wall behind her. Her right hand covers her nether regions, although a hint of dark hair is visible. One senses, indeed, that her hand is not placed where it is out of modesty, but rather that we are looking in on some very private reverie.

  Rhinebeck revealed her with a kind of wink, as if he thought we ladies might be offended. He told us that we were the first ladies who had seen her in ever so many years, and that she had been painted for an exclusive club in Paris, or at any rate that is what the dealer told him when he bought her after the war. He sat down and said with amiable simplicity, “So now you know all.”

  Of that I am not convinced. He seemed, I thought, to be protesting a bit too much. The painting is more frankly sensual than the sort of thing you would expect to find in a museum, but many more shocking works are hung proudly on the walls of Fifth Avenue apartments. He looked hard at his wife, as if he were waiting for some expression of shock or outrage. “What do you think?” he asked.

  She had been looking at the painting quite intently. With a sad smile she said that the painting reminded her somehow of the August afternoons of her youth on Nantucket. She is really a pathetic creature.

  In spite of Rhinebeck’s protestations, I am not convinced that he isn’t hiding something up here. I am sure, however, that that something is not the Renoir. So I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that if this Turner of yours exists, Rhinebeck might have it, and if he has it, it might be at Birch Lodge. He strikes me as the kind of man who would enjoy owning something as shocking as you claim this Turner is.

  It is almost dawn. My mind has been too wound up from the journey and too full of speculations to sleep. I also wanted to give you some report of my thoughts and progress as soon as I could. I have been told that the mail boat (isn’t that charming?) stops at the dock at around nine, so I intend to put this in the bag before I go to sleep.

  I will write again if I have the opportunity, but I suspect that the next time you hear from me will be in New York.

  Please know that I am dedicated to your cause and that I will leave no stone unturned in helping you achieve your aim.

  Yours devotedly,

  Maria

  Bryce put the letter down and smiled with satisfaction. “Very good,” he said. “You must concentrate your efforts on Rhinebeck and his circle. But we must move cautiously. We are getting close.”

  . 35 .

  THOSE WERE SUCH DAYS. It was the autumn of 1830. Egremont had cleared the house, sending his son up to London on a fool’s errand, which, fool though he was, Wyndham knew was merely to get him out of the way. He was convinced that I was behind the command that he depart, and he stuttered and turned crimson with rage as I bade him adieu. There was nothing he could say because his father was standing beside me. I put my hand on His Lordship’s arm as I waved the bastard good-bye.

  I remember the light. If Turner didn’t need us in the studio, I would find Grant and make him walk with me through the park. Petworth was always beautiful, but those days live in my memory. The colors of that season seemed brighter than other autumns, the air more clear. The light of those days and the light from the painting run together in my mind. I see young Grant’s face as he looked out on the view from the Rotunda. I see his back as he approaches me in the painting. I see the blue sky above the park, I see the more perfect sky above the sea.

  The sun sparkled on the water of the pond the way the light sparkled on Egremont’s diamonds. I wore the diamonds when Turner first sketched me. When I had been at Petworth only a month and hardly established as his mistress, Egremont called me up to his bedroom one afternoon. He had me undress and stand before him. I remember the feel of the Turkey carpet on my bare feet, the glow of the candles, the gray sky through the windows as the rain began to fall, the feel of the goosebumps on my skin in the cool air. He walked around me and considered me from all sides, as if I were a statue in his gallery or a horse in his stable. He had taken his boots off, although he was still dressed for the hunt, still smelling of horseflesh and exercise. I understood that, as old as he was, I was but the latest of many.

  He approached me with a small wooden casket. He took out the jewels, the ones I wore as Jessica, the ones which Helen let fall to the floor by her dressing table. He placed them on my bosom and affixed the clasp behind my neck. I had never seen jewels like these before. They seemed to fill the room with their sparkle. They were cold and heavy against my skin, somehow heavier for the fact that I wore nothing else. He stepped back a few steps and looked at me again. I could see the heat in his old eyes as my lips parted. “Damn,” he said, “you are as fine a piece of flesh as ever I beheld.”

  He kissed me and then pushed me back onto the bed. He turned me over and came into me. He used me hard; I could feel the diamonds cut into my flesh as he drove me down onto the coverlet.

  He never stripped me down and used me like that again, but that encounter sealed my place in his affections. I became for him the woman of that afternoon, and every night when he came to me it was with that memory in his mind. Even in later years, when his powers failed, he would think of those days. He would pat my bottom or give my breasts a squeeze and say that no one had ever worn those jewels as I did and no one deserved them better. That was why he left them to me when he died. I had to struggle with Wyndham about them, but I prevailed. I was fighting for my life, while he was only fighting out of malice.

  “Turner is to put you in another painting,” he said. “I want the jewels in it. I want to think of that afternoon with you when I see it. So go to him and take the jewels with you. Don’t fuss about. Do as he wants. I have great faith that he will outshine even himself.”

  When I first went to the studio, Turner was content to sketch my face, but after two or three times he said, “Come, madam. This will not do. I know your charming face well enough from sitting across from you during many pleasant dinners. We must come to the rest of it.”

  It was always said of Turner that he could not do the human figure. His Jessica seemed to bear that out, but as the event proved, he could paint the figure better than any artist of his generation. I never asked him why he did not do more often what he could do so well. But he knew his own nature. He had enough to do with his landscapes, I suppose; no want of subject matter in his mind. I think his sensual nature was so strong that he feared it would stand in the way of his art. I was not pleased that I had to do what was required of me, for I had grown accustomed to thinking of myself as the lady of Petworth House. But living as I had, I had bade farewell to true pride many years before.

  When the day came, I undressed behind the screen while Turner prepared his materials. I was wearing nothing but a robe of China silk that Turner had been thoughtful enough to provide. I ascended the little platform and looked down. He looked up at me. “Come, madam, there is nothing to be afraid of. I will not hurt you. Besides, I’m too sensible a man even to think of it.” But his lip was trembling and his voice almost broke. He was afraid, far more afraid than an old whore like me could even think of being.

  I let the robe fall, taking pleasure in watching him gasp, in seeing him realize the distance between a women like me and the harborside creature who was the mother of his brats. He was such an ugly man. As I walked up the stairs to the studio I had thought about what I would do if he tested the virtue I had lost so many years ago. In spite
of his nose and his dirty hands and his bad teeth, there was his genius. He was as close to a god as this fallen world possesses. I understood why those Greek girls would let themselves be taken by a bull or a swan: it was the odor of power and deity that compelled them. And I thought too that I could take a kind of vengeance on Egremont for sending me to Turner like some mere painter’s model. But I was no better than he treated me. I knew that. And I was fond of Egremont and not so far gone as to forget the gratitude I owed him.

  Still, when I let the robe fall I had not yet decided. Had Turner made half a gesture toward me I would have fallen. I could see that it took him some effort to master himself, but he was, in those days, a driven man. He, more than any of us, knew what it was to be touched by the gods. His nature obliged him to honor that touch and keep his mind on the work at hand.

  He said nothing. He drew his hand across his brow and went to his work, leaving me to stand there just as I was. I stood very still, my hands hanging at my side, the palms turned up the way they had been as the robe fell away. His gaze was like a lover’s caress, and I could feel myself yearn for him. No one had ever looked at me so intently, yet he was like a wall. Stare at him as I would, I could make no contact with the man behind the pencil.

  After that first day Turner told me clearly what he wanted me to do. Raise your arm, please. Lean against the chair. Put your weight on your left leg. He was precise and polite. He knew his business. He was like old Hobb, the master of Egremont’s stables. There was no horse living, Hobb said, that he could not break. It was only a matter of time and patience. Lie down on the couch, please. Move your knees apart ever so slightly. Thank you. He broke me so slowly that by the time he had me on my knees before him like a bitch in heat, I hardly felt it.