On the Verge
Garen Glazier
Copyright © 2015 by Garen Glazier
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
ISBN 978-0-9967397-0-2
Only Child Press
Bothell, Washington, USA
Editor: Steven Bauer, Hollow Tree Literary Services
Cover Design: Daniel Cullen, Page and Jacket
Digital Design: Polgarus Studio
Learn more about the author at garenglazier.com.
By this time in his career Franz Stuck had painted plenty of nude bodies. On this gray afternoon in Vienna, however, there was something different about the one that was forming under the sensual pressure of his brush. He painted like a man possessed, and perhaps he was, although it was nothing like the demonic possessions he had heard of or imagined in his darkest nightmares. The strange presence he felt animating his arms, articulating his wrists and steadying his fingers was disconcerting but also arousing in a way that went beyond sexuality and into the more rarified realm of creativity. He’d never felt more potent, more ready to give the vision before him an eternal life on canvas.
She was striking, graceful in her obvious deadliness, snakelike. Although no snake was present in the fraught space of his studio, the hard, muscular coils of a serpent began to appear beneath his quick but precise strokes as he moved from painting her nearly translucent white skin to the glistening scales of the tumescent creature. She stood before him brazenly, the woman who had found him and convinced him against his better judgment to paint her portrait, unaware of the snake that was becoming her mantle. He shuddered with a mixture of dread and longing as he formed the serpent using the same curving stokes of his brush to paint its viperous coils as he had the supple curve of her breast moments before.
He saved the faces for last, animating her eyes with a touch of sparkling white in each black orb before his brush moved slightly to the left, carefully rendering the geometric lines of two dazzling diamond eyes, malevolent lozenges of seductive evil that shone out of the darkness of the painting’s background. He traced a tenebrous bell curve next, populating it with razor sharp fangs, a dark maw opened in rident voracity. The snake’s head was nearly finished before he saw he’d placed it on the woman’s shoulder so that it seemed to form her twin. They both stared out at him from the painting with devastating dominion, and he realized in a flash of clarity the identity of the femme fatale that stood before him.
“Sin,” Stuck breathed, and the woman smiled. She sidled forward, resplendent in her cloak of wickedness, to glimpse her portrait for the first time.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered in his ear.
He wasn’t aware of when she left, only that when he finally lifted his eyes from the work the light in the studio had dimmed and the shadows stretched across the paint-splattered floor ominously. Wrapping his coat around him tightly he made his way down the creaking stairs to the cobblestone street outside inhaling the brisk night air. All the way home, and even after he had closed his eyes against the oppressive gloom of his bedchamber, the portrait remained stubbornly in his mind’s eye: a tribute to depravity, to craving, to fiendishness and rapacity, to beauty and sex and hidden passions. Sin, indeed.
Freya walked quickly across the Quad, her messenger bag banging heavily against her hip with each step. She splashed through the puddles dotting the red brick pathway glad she had pulled on her Hunters that morning. She was late for Art History. Again. And today was the midterm.
As the clock tower struck 8:30, she started to run for the old wooden doors of the art building. She bolted inside, her wet feet squeaking on the ancient, tiled floor. The lecture hall was in the dank basement of the nearly century-old structure. While the campus buildings that housed the sciences and business school were all flashy glass and steel behemoths, most of the humanities buildings were in sad states of disrepair. Ruinously beautiful on the outside, the hundred or so years of wear and tear the insides had received resulted in a general sense of deterioration.
She reached the door of the lecture hall and winced as it squeaked forlornly on its hinges. Fifty pairs of eyes turned to meet her for a moment before returning to their busy scribbles, but it was the bright blue pair at the front of the room that most concerned her. The eyes of Professor Lior Dakryma followed her as she strode quickly to the podium. The man was tall and imposing with a lugubriousness that pervaded the atmosphere around him. Freya always envisioned him as a kind of Teutonic angel, full of a latent wrath and self-righteous superiority. She smiled apologetically, grabbed the test proffered to her by his elegant hand, and found a seat near the end of the front row.
Truth be told, she didn’t actually mind Professor Dakryma’s eyes on her, even if they mostly contained disdain. Tall and slim, he was young for an academic and had the kind of intelligent but careworn face of a man who had spent a few too many hours in dimly lit and poorly ventilated archives. With his penchant for black sweaters and dark jeans he always struck a dashing if somewhat gloomy figure around campus, and he knew it.
Pushing hedonistic thoughts of her handsome professor aside, she found her focus and started in on the exam. The minutes ticked by quickly, but Freya managed to finish the last of the essay questions just as the bell rang signaling the end of the period. She gathered up her things and filed toward the front along with the rest of the students to deposit her completed test near Dakryma’s podium. She was just turning to leave when his voice called her back.
“Should I expect to give you full marks again, Freya?” he said.
“I hope so,” she said, dodging her fellow classmates’ speedy departures.
“Imagine what you could do if you weren’t habitually late.”
“You know I work better under pressure, Professor.”
Freya smiled cheekily and turned to go. She was Dakryma’s work-study assistant, much to the fastidious man’s chagrin. He was a stickler for protocol, and her lack of punctuality offended his sense of the order and rhythm of things, though Freya knew she more than made it up to him with the speed and quality of her work. And she didn’t mind his arrogance; at least he had the intelligence and credentials to back it up. The accent didn’t hurt either.
Dakryma was a visiting faculty member from Sofia University in Bulgaria and a world-renowned art historian. She’d been more than a little thrilled when she’d applied to be his assistant, and he had chosen her from among a long list of qualified candidates. It didn’t pay well, and god knows she needed the cash, but she figured working for him, doing an excellent job, and gaining and remaining in his good graces couldn’t be the worst thing for a college senior on the lookout for potential job opportunities. It was still autumn quarter but graduation would be here before she knew it, and she wanted to have something lined up before the grace period on her college loans ended.
She left the lecture hall and made her way towards the basement café, Parnassus. The baristas always had a bad attitude, but the coffee was good and the place had a certain energy that only an art school coffee house could have. It’s where she did her best thinking.
Freya settled into one end of the worn couch in the corner of the café, spreading the latest issue of Hi-Fructose magazine across her lap. She took a sip of her latte, letting the foam linger on her lips before licking it away. Freya always relished these calm moments following the intense thinking and quick scribbling an exam entailed. She let her head fall against
the back of the couch and closed her eyes. She’d have to remember not to sign up for any 8:30 am lectures next quarter. Hers was a more crepuscular circadian rhythm; sunrises just didn’t seem as natural as sunsets.
Sighing she opened her eyes again and caught her breath. Near the entrance of the café stood one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her dark hair was caught up in a neat bun except for a thick fringe of sideswept bangs that highlighted her strikingly dark eyes. Her emerald-green blouse skimmed her body hinting at the enviable curves beneath, while her dark jeans hugged her full hips and long legs.
Freya was a great admirer of beauty in all its forms. It kind of went with the art history territory. Male or female, she was known to stare appreciatively at either sex. Her keen eyes always sought out the unusual and interesting, finding attractiveness in difference. It made her an inveterate people watcher, but she had never witnessed someone like the woman at the café door. Even after a brief glance, it was clear she was arresting, not only because of her classic glamour, but also because of an indescribable allure that was immediately apparent yet difficult to define. The juxtaposition made her impossibly captivating.
Stealing another glance at the woman as she stood at the counter, Freya noticed that Travis, the usually churlish barista, actually asked what the lady wanted. Whenever Freya gave him her espresso order she was always met with a truculent stare, as though it was a great imposition for him to pull a shot. Freya smirked and then noted with amusement that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the bombshell in their midst. Men and women alike stole looks over thick textbooks or stared openly in a range of attitudes that ranged from lasciviousness to pure envy.
Trying not to appear like too much of a stalker, Freya determined to take her eyes off the strangely magnetic visitor and returned to her magazine and lukewarm latte. She’d only turned a couple of pages when the shadow of someone blocked the light from the glossy page. Freya knew it was the woman without even looking up.
“So this is Parnassus.” Her voice was low and resonant, with just a hint of something far away and exotic in the slight softening of the vowels.
“The one and only,” Freya nodded, not exactly sure how to reply.
The woman set her coffee cup on the low table in front of the couch and took a seat uncomfortably near Freya, crossing her legs elegantly as she did so. Freya, desperate to look anywhere but directly at the mesmeric stranger, couldn’t help but notice the little heart design Travis had worked into the foam of her latte. She’d never seen him do more than glare balefully at the foam in her drink.
“Oh, but it’s not, of course,” the beauty chided.
“What do you mean?” Freya asked.
“It’s not the only Parnassus, is it?” she replied. “Are you forgetting that rugged limestone mount that looms like a slumbering god over the city of Delphi in Greece?”
“Uh, yes, of course, there’s that one too,” Freya said, feeling nonplussed.
“If they were ever to come here the muses would surely die of neglect if not from asbestos poisoning,” the woman said eyeing the crumbling plaster and exposed pipes. “I’m Ophidia, by the way.”
“Freya,” the student replied, “Nice to meet you.”
The woman named Ophidia smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Nice might not be quite the word for it, but you can decide for yourself later.”
Freya had her defenses up. She was naturally reserved, and this lady was making her nervous. The university was bordered on its west side by a seedy district, populated by vagrants, homeless youth and drunken frat boys most days of the week. Occasionally one of the more daring transients would show up on campus, and Freya was wondering if somehow this Ophidia woman was one of them. But she was far too clean and well dressed for that. Freya eyed her warily before turning her attention back to the magazine she held while attempting to surreptitiously monitor the stranger beside her, ready to pick up and leave if the situation required.
“You can stop pretending to read. I’m not here to make small talk, and I’m not that dangerous.”
She punctuated the last part with a wink that did nothing to ease Freya’s apprehensions.
“I’m here as more of a recruiter, a talent scout so to speak. I work at Constellation Art and Antiques. I assume you’ve heard of it.”
Of course Freya had. Everyone knew about Constellation and the infamous collector behind it, Imogen Beldame. She was from a family with deep roots in the Seattle area. Her father’s grandfather, Jebediah, had made his fortune in logging the seemingly endless blanket of evergreens that covered the entire western half of the state in the mid-nineteenth century. His heirs had followed in his industrious footsteps and, unlike some families whose forebears had accumulated great wealth, Old Man Jeb’s successors proved to be just as assiduous and avaricious as their revered ancestor.
By the time Beldame inherited her father’s estate, the fortune was massive. But rather than rest on her old money laurels, she’d chosen to put her congenital perspicacity and considerable resources toward the accumulation of a world-class collection of art and antiquities. Just what was included on her register was a mystery; she was known as much for her stockpiling of rarities and paintings as she was for her solitary and secretive nature. Some items were inferred based on winning bids placed by her known associates at public auctions. Others could only be guessed at as her black market transactions were widely surmised but never confirmed.
She spent the majority of her time ensconced in her immense and beautiful Madrona mansion. The few times she had been sighted outside of the confines of the 150-year-old French chateau-style enclave, she surprised people not with her eccentricity or avant-garde approach, but with her relative normalcy. The papers and news outlets described her as the archetypal grandmotherly figure, with bright white hair drawn up in a simple bun, a round face characterized by rosy cheeks and kind eyes. She dressed sensibly, usually in black, and looked for all intents and purposes the exact opposite of what one might imagine when conjuring up images of an acquisitive, reclusive heiress with a taste for the unusual and the antique.
All this ran through Freya’s mind when the mysterious brunette asked about her familiarity with the near-mythic Seattle collector, but she only nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement.
“You’re a woman of few words, I see. Well, all the better for me as I have only a little time to state my case before my services are needed elsewhere.”
She glanced toward the door when she said this as if to underscore her point.
“Ms. Beldame has realized for many years that her reputation around town leaves something to be desired. She’s always hoped to remedy the public’s poor perception of her, but as a scrupulous businesswoman and a bastion of the introverted and circumspect, she has neither found the necessary leeway within her schedule nor is it in her temperament to address her problematic image. Perhaps sensing the passage of time more keenly now that she is squarely within her eighth decade, Ms. Beldame has decided to mount an exhibition of her favorite artist, the Symbolist Franz von Stuck, at the Frye Art Museum, in an effort to improve her public persona.”
Ophidia paused for a moment to take a sip of her latte. The woman even managed to make that small action look ridiculously appealing. Freya swallowed hard and tried not to stare.
“The show will feature many of the German artist’s best works,” Ophidia continued, "including his two great masterpieces, one that Beldame has had in her collection for some time now, and another on loan from abroad.”
Freya nodded enthusiastically, wondering where the conversation was going. She thought about asking the exotic beauty, but she could feel that something good was coming and she didn’t want to ruin it with an ill-timed interruption.
Ophidia hesitated once again, eyeing Freya with the practiced evaluation of someone used to appraising the value of an object, and then began again.
“Ms. Beldame has been researching these works for quite some time and she’s
made some interesting discoveries regarding the methods and materials used in their creation. This is where you come in.”
“I do love Symbolism, but I’m not sure how I can help,” Freya interjected, a confused look suffusing her features.
“Stuck created these particular paintings using unusual pigments,” Ophidia said. “No one’s made the connection before. It will be a big deal for the art world. The job I’m offering is nothing too glamorous, I’m afraid, but Beldame has decided to make the announcement of her discoveries at the gallery opening, and she wants the pigments on hand when she does it. We’ve tracked down the local sources for these rare colors, and she needs your help collecting them.”
“So you want me to pick these colors up?”
“More or less,” Ophidia said. “Beldame will explain it to you further, but we need you to get started immediately. The show opens on October 31st.”
“That’s just a few days away,” said Freya.
“Precisely why we need you to begin right away,” Ophidia replied. “If you’re interested, Ms. Beldame would like to meet with you in person, tomorrow.”
“But why me?”
Ophidia stared at her with cold eyes. “Ms. Beldame does not take her appointments lightly. She asked me to find someone who fit a certain set of requirements: a background in art history, an excellent work ethic, and a low profile. I’ve been searching this art school for a while and I think you’re the one. Plus, this is a paid position. We’ll reward you handsomely and, if I’m not mistaken, that will be welcome news for you.”
Freya shot Ophidia a reproving glance. What did she know about Freya’s finances? Sure, her parents had died young and without a penny to their names. Her aunt had taken her in, but Freya had worked hard from a young age to help pay her way. When her aunt had died last year, she’d left her the apartment they shared, and Freya lived there, surviving off her work-study income and student loans.
On the Verge Page 1
