by Laura Crum
Seeing, I suppose, my rapt expression, Nicole said, "Take your time. Look as much as you would like. Would you care for a glass of wine?"
"That would be lovely."
"I have a Pinot Gris that is open."
"Wonderful." I could not take my eyes off the painting in front of me. It was the one I had noticed when I was first here, predominantly tawny amber in color, undulating like hills, with areas of warm olive green and a central shape of deep cobalt blue. As in all the paintings, a delicate tracery of black inking rendered the work subtly shadowed, coaxed me to examine it more closely.
I stepped forward. Intricate as a garden spider's web, the faint lines somehow evoked leaves, and yet the patterns were almost geometric. And that deep, pure blue, like a body of water.
Nicole handed me a glass of chilled white wine. I took a sip. "Do you mind if I ask you a lot of very naive questions?" I asked her.
"Of course not." Once again, she smiled. "I am hoping you will ask me questions."
I gestured at the painting. "Does this represent a landscape, or is it abstract?"
Nicole thought. A long pause ensued, in which I could see her thinking. "It is both," she said at last. "If you would like, I will tell you a little about the paintings."
"Please."
"This one," she looked at the painting I was studying, "and most of the others that are here, were, how would you say, inspired by a particular time and place in my life. Then, I lived in a town called Cadaques, on the Costa Brava, in Spain." She looked at me inquiringly.
I shook my head. "I've never been to Spain."
"Cadaques is very beautiful," she said. "The landscape is very austere and rocky, and the sea is lovely colors. The little town is whitewashed, with small, crooked cobblestone streets. The artist Salvador Dali lived and painted there."
"So is this," I gestured at the painting, "a scene from Cadaques?"
"In some ways. I think you would say that it is inspired by the landscape around Cadaques-the hills and olive trees and sea. But it is not of them, really. It is a vision in my head that came from them. An interior landscape, perhaps you could say."
I nodded and moved around the room, looking at paintings. Another undulating sweep of hill shapes in sandstone reds, reminding me somewhat of Georgia O'Keeffe. And then a lovely tumble of ocher and coral with a brilliant lapis-blue curve in the lower right-hand corner.
"Did you paint these when you lived in Spain?" I asked.
"No, these were all painted here. It is a strange thing." Nicole smiled. "When I lived in Spain, I painted things in my head from Amsterdam, where I lived for many years. I did not paint Spain at all. Now I do." She smiled again. "For me, I think, it is necessary to distill the experience before I can paint it. I need to have some distance from it. As I am saying, I do not paint the thing itself, but the vision it has produced in my mind."
I stared at a darker painting, all indigo-blue and violet, shot through with flashes of scarlet. Over all, the delicate inked shapes, particularly dramatic on white areas.
"So, do you always do the ink lines? I've never seen that on watercolors before."
"Yes. That has become my signature. I think I originally started because when I was very young I always drew line drawings with pen and ink. When I began using watercolor, the paintings looked incomplete, too soft. I began inking on the ones that I did not like, that I had given up on. And then, gradually, it grew to be an important aspect of what I was doing."
My eyes shifted to Nicole as she was speaking and I took a sip of wine. I'd been so absorbed by the paintings that I'd barely looked at my hostess or touched the drink in my glass; I'd even neglected my usual habit of gazing around a room to try and pick up its character. Nicole didn't seem to notice. She was probably used to this.
Now, for a minute, I studied the woman who had made the paintings, and this space. She was dressed much as she had been when I'd first seen her-jeans and a chambray shirt with paint stains on it, hair simply tied back in a ponytail. Work clothes, I surmised. Her face was without affectation, both in its clear, open expression and in the lack of makeup or artifice. In many ways, she could be said to be beautiful: the delicate, finely drawn bone structure, wide mouth, and big dark eyes all lent themselves to that. And yet, in some lights, in certain glances, she could appear very plain.
I took another sip of wine. "You said you've lived in Amsterdam; are you Dutch, then?" I asked the question tentatively, uncertain how she would respond to subjects other than her art.
"My mother was Dutch; my father is French. I was raised in Amsterdam, very close to Anne Frank's house. Perhaps you know it, or know of it."
"Know of it. I've never been anywhere outside California." I felt a little ashamed when I said this.
Nicole smiled, that simple, guileless smile. "Perhaps you will go someday."
To this I said nothing.
"I went first to France when I left home. A little village called Valery. And then, later, to Cadaques, in Spain."
"And then here?"
"And then to the United States," she agreed. "First to San Francisco, and then here. I came with a boyfriend," she added. "He was to study at this university. But then he left." Once again the smile. "And I stayed."
"Do you like it here?”
"In some ways. It is a good place for me to paint. I have done much since I have lived here. My work now supports me entirely. But I do not know people here, as I did in Europe. I miss going out to the cafes in the evening sometimes with friends. It is a very different world there.
"Even so, this place is special to me. This house, this room that I have made."
It truly was a remarkable room. Open and airy, filled with paintings, the room had a clarity, almost a purity, that was hard to put a finger on.
Nicole saw my eyes travel around the space. "The windows are mostly on the north side," she said. "This makes a light that is good for painting. It is, how do say it, indirect."
"So do you paint in this room every day?"
"Yes. At least a little. Sometimes I work in the garden. Sometimes I take the horse for a ride. Once in a while I clean." She smiled again. "But not very often."
I smiled back at her. I thought her a charming human being. Bringing my eyes back to the paintings, I asked her, "How do you go about making these?" '
Nicole's smile illuminated her face. "First I have an idea. An image in my mind of color and shape. Perhaps I do a sketch, perhaps not. When it is clear in my head what the painting must be about, I begin putting the washes of color on the paper, reserving the areas I wish to remain white."
I imagined her, standing before the big easel near the window, brush in hand, contemplating the work before her.
"This can take several days," she went on. "Each day I place the colors and shapes that I see the painting needs. Then I wait until it appears balanced. Or not. Some paintings never work out."
"Does the inking come last?"
"Yes. Once the painting has the balance I look for, I begin the inking, to give it force and life."
"How long does it all take?"
"It depends. A big work can take two or three weeks, even a month."
"I see."
"That is why they are so expensive," she said. "That, and that there is some demand for them now."
"How much is expensive?" I asked.
"The larger ones are several thousand dollars. The smaller are less."
It figured. What I wanted for my wall was one of these big ones. I stared at the painting in front of me now; approximately three feet by four feet, it balanced curvaceous and yet also angular burnt orange shapes against swirls of aquamarine and grayed violet. This would fit my wall. And yet I was not sure this was the one I wanted.
I wandered to the next, a very vivid work, with a strong blood-red cleft dividing areas of apricot and yellow-green. And then another in tawny tones with turquoise billows and coral rivulets.
I looked back at Nicole. "I can't decide," I said help
lessly. "I do want one, but I don't know which one."
"It may take some time," she said simply. "Sometimes people are struck instantly, and they say, I must have that. Other times they must look and look and then one painting in particular speaks to them more and more. You can come back, if you'd like," she added.
"I would like to," I said, looking at my watch. I'd been here an hour. Good manners demanded that I not take up too much of this woman's time. Finishing my glass of wine, I said, "When would it be convenient for me to come back?"
"Most evenings this week I am free."
"Could I come Wednesday evening then, around the same time?"
"That will be fine." Nicole smiled as she said it, and I had the sense that she did welcome me, that my presence was not an intrusion. She went with me to the door.
Once we were outside, in the garden, I looked over the low wall toward the barn. "Do you ride much?" I asked Nicole.
"Perhaps two or three times a week," she said.
"On the trails around here?"
"Yes."
"And how is the mare doing?" I asked idly.
"She is okay, I think. But this morning I found her tied in the barn again. As you saw her the last time."
"You did?" Startled, my mind went snapping back to the original reason I'd come out here. My God. Though I'd more or less forgotten Nicole's strange problem, caught up in my interest in her paintings, the sordid little scene came back to me now in a rush.
"Damn," I said. "I don't like that. I really think you need to call the police."
Nicole stopped short and looked straight at me. "Gail," she said, "is it all right if I call you Gail?"
"Yes, of course," I said.
She smiled. "I am Nico to my friends." She pronounced it "Neeco."
"All right."
"So what I am telling you now is to a friend."
"All right," I said again.
"I cannot call the police. I cannot have anything to do with them. I am here illegally, and if it is found that I am living and working here, I will be forced to leave. Deported."
"Oh," I said. "I see."
"So I cannot call the police."
"I understand. But," I stared at her in the last light of the summer dusk, gray shadows all around us, "it seems like it might be dangerous, someone coming here at night like that."
Nicole was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, "That is your worry, Gail, not mine. I am not busy with that."
Feeling rebuked, but in a kind way, I nodded. "Okay," I said.
Still, I climbed in my truck not sure at all what I was feeling. Only that I thought Nico looked very alone, walking back toward the lighted windows of her house.
ELEVEN
My next day of calls went relatively smoothly, sans irate clients for once. My mind drifted back to Nico as I drove from place to place. To her paintings, her house, her presence. And to her problem.
It was such a dark and powerful image-a strange man sneaking into a barn at night to have sex with a horse. What sort of man would do such a thing? Perhaps a teenage boy, I thought again. But the fact that the act had been repeated bothered me.
I thought about it off and on all day, without reaching any conclusions about what to do. Nico had asked me specifically not to call the police, and clearly her reason was a good one. And yet, I was worried. I would not want someone creeping into my barn at night to rape my horses.
Thank God I've got geldings, I thought, and had to laugh. When you looked at it one way it seemed almost ludicrous. Turn it another and it was ominous. I didn't know what to think.
What I did know was that I liked Nico. I felt drawn to her, as I was to her work, and I felt an odd kinship between us. What it was composed of was unclear still, but I had the sense that something in her direct, forthright manner found an echo in me.
I had noticed this quality before in Europeans, and had occasionally wondered whether I might feel more at home, in some ways, in Europe than America. That simple, uncluttered habit of saying clearly what one thought and felt, without false social niceties or a pretense of being other than one was, seemed natural to some German, French, and Dutch women I had known. As natural to them as it seemed foreign to many Americans.
I had always found it difficult to connect with women. The friendship I'd formed with Kris had been built up over years of time and trials, and probably never would have become close without her divorce. The few friends I'd made in high school and college seemed relatively distanced from me now. I wondered suddenly if Nico and I might become friends.
One thing was for sure. Nico and her work had aroused my interest as nothing else had done in six months. I found I was hoping we would become friends, become part of each others' lives.
I was hoping for something. The fact of it was immensely cheering. Perhaps I was getting over this damn depression. Perhaps I didn't need a shrink.
But I had an appointment with one. Reluctantly, at five, I presented myself at his office, which turned out to be not all that far from my own.
An innocuous little beige stucco building with a hedge in front of it, Dr. Alan Todd's place of business was neither imposing nor, in any sense, impressive. It was downright humble.
I entered a very conventional-looking waiting room, and was startled to find myself the only human being in it. No desk, no receptionist. No other patients. Just a couch, two armchairs, a table with magazines, and some regulation scenic photographs on the walls. There was a door at the other side of the room, firmly shut, and a light switch on the wall next to it with a printed sign over it. "Dr. Alan Todd," it said. "Flip switch to 'on', to indicate your arrival."
I flipped the switch. A small red light beneath it glowed. I stared. That was it, it seemed. At a guess, now I waited.
Sitting down on the couch, I picked up The New Yorker. Still, I found myself a little too anxious to concentrate on reading. What was this going to be like? I had read about shrinks and seen them portrayed in movies, but I had no firsthand experience. I hoped I wouldn't have to lie on a couch while the shrink sat behind me. I also hoped he wouldn't just sit quietly waiting for me to say something. What in the hell should I say, anyway?
I was chewing this over in my mind when the door by the light switch opened and a man stepped into the room. A tall man, somewhat older than I, perhaps fifty or so, with graying hair, a Nordic face, clear blue eyes. He wore conventional East-Coast-preppy clothes-dark blue slacks, loafers, a long-sleeved shirt with a maroon V -necked wool vest over it, a tie. Still, he looked somewhat casual and untidy; the clothes were a little rumpled: there was a small but obvious hole in the vest, the tie was an odd yellow-and-chartreuse pattern.
Taking all this in as quickly as I could, I stood up. The man held out his hand and smiled. "Dr. Alan Todd," he said.
I shook his hand. "Dr. Gail McCarthy." I smiled, too, somewhat amused. I seldom introduced myself as Dr. McCarthy, other than to clients, but I seemed to have an impulse to place myself on an equal footing with this man.
"Nice to meet you." Dr. Todd smiled again and held the door open for me. I preceded him down a short hall with doors on each side. "It's the first door on your left," he said.
Following his directions, I stepped through the open door of the office and looked around curiously. A very ordinary office, it seemed, much like the waiting room. A desk in one corner, various bits of stuff tacked on the walls, a shelf full of books. There were several seating options, including a couch, a couple of armchairs, and the desk chair. I wondered if I would be evaluated on where I chose to sit.
I selected an armchair across the room from the desk, avoiding the couch. Patient fears intimacy; I could just imagine the mental note.
Quit being paranoid, Gail, I told myself. And besides, that's what you're here for, anyway. You want him to evaluate you. Be that as it might, it was still uncomfortable. I felt like a bug on a pin. And here was the botanist, bending over me.
Shoving the image away, I watched Dr. Alan Todd settle himsel
f comfortably into the desk chair, turning his back to the desk so that he faced me. He placed a file folder in his lap and glanced at it, then back at me. Folding his hands quietly over the folder and leaning back in his chair, he said, "So what can I do for you, Dr. McCarthy?"
I decided to be blunt. "I'm depressed," I said, "and it's beginning to interfere with my life. My friend, Kris Griffith, said you helped her with a depression. I was hoping you could help me."
"What form are you picturing this help taking?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. I've never seen a shrink, I mean a psychiatrist, before. I know there are antidepressant medications; I wondered if some of them might help me."
Dr. Todd regarded me steadily. "Tell me about this depression," he said.
At this, I had to think. What was there to tell? "I'm not sure exactly what caused it," I said. "I have a lot of new stresses in my life, but there's nothing going on that's really negative. My boss made me a partner recently, and I moved from one place to another. About six months ago I broke up with my boyfriend, but that was a mutual decision and I still think it was the right thing to do."
"And when did your depression start?"
"About six months ago."
"I see," he said.
I realized that he was doubtless linking my breakup with Lonny to the onset of depression. Well, let him link. It did seem to have happened like that.
"What are the symptoms of your depression?" Dr. Todd asked.
"I'm not interested in anything anymore. Not my job or my horses or my garden or the man I'm dating. I'm tired all the time, I don't have any appetite, I cry for no reason, and I'm always wanting to sleep. Sometimes I even feel like I'd rather be dead than go on this way." That was as accurate a description as I could come up with.
