All of this will be small consolation to you, but I have attempted to mitigate your sense of loss with the cash enclosed with this letter. I am of course under no obligation to you, but I feel an uncharacteristic wish to reward you for what you did.
I also wish to demonstrate that I am a man of considerable resources. My ability to find this painting in the haystack of the world should give some sense of my reach and grasp. Although I am predisposed to think of you with kindness and pity, please know that if you make any movements toward me—any movements whatsoever—I will know of them, and you will immediately feel unpleasant consequences. I am a ruthless man. I know more about your children than you do; your wife is an open book to me. In the bourse where such matters are traded, a stranger’s life can be had for $20,000, plus travel expenses. You and your family are such strangers.
Imagine your feelings for the painting. Now imagine them multiplied a hundredfold—no, a thousandfold. You may now only begin to understand my feelings and the lengths to which I will go.
You have been blessed. Very few have come as close to the truth of things as you have.
I bid you farewell.
. 60 .
OF COURSE IT WAS wrong. I never saw Turner again. He wrote me a few times over the years, but received only a short note in return, begging him to write no more. And then he died, and shortly afterward Wyndham died, too. One of the brats now rules at Petworth. I only learn of these things through the newspapers that Hannah brings in every morning.
I have outlived so many. My breath fails when I climb the stairs. Many days I lie in bed all day. I listen to the sound of the air passing in and out of my lungs. I have no desire or need to see a physician.
Hannah too is growing old. She is becoming a middle-aged woman, and she is more plain than ever, but I treat her well. She remembers the life she had before she came to me. She has no family. I have told her to go, to find another life. But she is content. All this will be hers when I die. To whom else should it go?
The light still remains. It grows richer with each passing day, each passing hour. New things appear. The old somehow remains, at least in memory. I grow more beautiful. The skin on my hand is mottled, the flesh sags around my neck.
I no longer look at myself much, or even at Paris’s smooth skin. I look toward the sea. The ships seem more and more wondrous, their cargo more and more precious. Where are these riches bound? At times I seem to see beyond the picture’s frame: there is the merchant pacing on the dock, waiting for the arrival of the cargo; there is the sailor’s sweetheart, burning to see him again. Where are those towered cities? The sweet smoke of sacrifice rises to the sky. The people pray. Sometimes the gods smile; sometimes they do not.
I see the gods over the battlefield. I see them in the light of the sky, in the spaces between the edges of the clouds and the sky, about the borders of the sun. I feel all the yearning I have ever felt, and all the joy as well.
Hannah will bring me tea. I have never shown her what is in the cabinet, but surely she suspects something. The servants always know. It has been so many years. She must know, but she has never spoken of it, never asked me. She has been silent and respectful through all these years, a faithful servant indeed.
She will find the key about my neck when I am gone. She knows where the letter to my solicitor is.
There is more in the light than there ever was. The colors grow richer. The wind pushes the marvelous boats along. I can smell the sea. There is nothing but light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
. . .
The following friends and early readers provided comments on various drafts and, most importantly, encouraged me to go on. Thanks to Doug Baldwin, Connie Cook, Bob Cumming, Logan Fox, Jessica Hecht, Carl Klompus, Jane Mallison, Ray Potter, Saundra Young, and Ingeborg Van Essen. Additional thanks to Ray for making an important introduction.
I would also like to thank Ida Lawrence, Steve Lazer, and Fran Morecz. You didn’t know about this book until it was done, but I could not have written it without your support.
Chris Calhoun, my agent, did everything that an agent is supposed to do and is a nice guy as well. Thank you.
I am especially indebted to Evelyn Toynton. Her care, good sense, and attention were great gifts. Thanks to Marjorie DeWitt, Yvonne E. Cárdenas, and Sulay Hernandez of Other Press. I also want to thank Judith Gurewich for believing in me and my book.
But mostly I want to thank my wife, Barbara Fishman, for being my friend and lover for all these years. Nothing would have been possible or worth doing without that.
The Center of the World Page 28
