The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  Levon turned his back on him, stared out the window, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Rafe had never seen him angry before. Feeling chastised, he slipped lower into his chair, wrapped defensively in his overcoat.

  “I mean, what the fuck,” he said again.

  “It’s not what you think,” Rafe said mildly.

  “We can talk about what I think, later. That board meeting you missed last night? Whit told them all about you and Tessa, starting with your sexy little Tango on Halloween and ending with your heroic performance on Monday morning. He strongly recommended that your fool ass be kicked off the board.”

  Wearily, Rafe put his head in his hands. The meeting. He had forgotten about the bloody meeting.

  “You know, I’m not the criminal here,” he said irritably. “What about Whit? Telling a student to clear out, on a Sunday night at the end of vacation when he knew nobody else would be around. Why isn’t he on trial?”

  Levon put his hands flat on the desk. “Is he an asshole? Absolutely. But there’s no law against what he did; the Chairman of the Painting Department can’t be dismissed for giving a student bad news.” He sighed, sat down heavily. He looked thinner, harried. “It’s not just about you and Tessa, Rafe. The staff needs you. The students need you.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

  “You’ve got to end it with her.”

  “I can’t. I love her, Levon.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You know, I haven’t…we haven’t…she’s still, ah…” He lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

  “It doesn’t matter, Rafe. Everyone knows you’re together.” Then, curiously, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Wow.” Levon massaged the back of his neck. He sighed. “When I saw her like that Monday morning…I thought we were going to have to call Bellevue.”

  “Have you met with her yet?”

  Levon lifted his cap, ran his hand over his shining bald pate. “Yes. Her sketches look great. Now all she has to do is get it all done in time.”

  Rafe sighed, drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Okay. Tell me where we go from here.”

  He stared glumly out the window at the oncoming night as Levon told him how to repair the damage. Show up at meetings, seduce the board, remind them of why they got involved in the first place. Be cool and clever and charming at every ball, soiree and charity function from now until the end of the year. Bring in more celebrities and socialites, the money would follow. Giselle was going to a thing at the Guggenheim tonight. He could start there.

  Rafe’s attention wandered. What was Tessa doing right now? What was she wearing? He was thinking of a particular satin bustier he had seen in the window of a pocket-sized lingerie shop in the Village, and how she might look in it as he undressed her, hook by hook, ribbon by ribbon. He thought of her doe-soft eyes, starry with love. Her arms around him, creating a safe haven. The drama of her expressions as she listened to the story of his day. He could still feel the impression of her warm body where it had dovetailed with his, a few hours earlier.

  There had been a single blip, one solitary bad moment to mar his happiness. Together in her apartment, both of them shirtless, the desire for blood had suddenly reared up and overwhelmed him. There was no warning. The muscles in his jaw began to swell, his eyes to change, and suddenly the predator was already there, taking over his brain. Rather than risk hurting her, he’d grabbed his coat and stumbled out into the night.

  But he could handle it. Perhaps he couldn’t have managed a relationship with an ordinary girl when he was still new at this vampire thing, but he was older now, he had more control, more resources. There were other ways to get what he needed.

  Levon was winding down. Rafe knew the drill. Meet the people, shake out the money. He stood up to leave, apologized for his appalling error in judgment, promised he would get right back on track. Levon smiled in relief, apologized sheepishly for calling him out, clapped him on the back, shook his hand like a friend.

  Alone in the hallway, he looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. An excited tingling in the pit of his belly. Tessa would be in her studio. He took the stairs two at a time.

  “Superpowers,” said Clayton.

  “How many?”

  “Just one.”

  Harker licked the rolling paper, gave a final twist to the end of a skinny little cigarette. “Flying. No question. What about you?”

  “Mind control,” said Clayton, without hesitation. “Over the ladies. For obvious reasons.”

  Ben blew smoke over his head in a long, steady stream. “Today?” he said. “Super speed. Then there would be a remote possibility that I might finish my thesis project in time for the show.”

  “What about you, Graham?”

  “Shapeshifting,” he said, squinting moodily into his empty wineglass. “I like the idea of being able to eat whatever I want and still look like Richard Gere.”

  Tessa had coerced her friends into posing for the third of her three paintings, the whirlwind of bodies rising up into the sky, offering free wine and a shot at immortality. They were sitting wherever there was space; piled together on the couch, more on the cracked Danish modern chairs. The Moroccan table stood at the center of the room, bearing an open bottle of wine, a little wooden crate of clementines, a half-empty pan of brownies Harker had brought in. A ribbon of sweet-smelling smoke wafted up into the air; Clayton had anchored an incense stick in the pliable greenish buttocks of Tessa’s écorché sculpture.

  “These brownies have kind of an interesting aftertaste,” Portia remarked.

  “Katie has a new job,” said Harker. He hefted his guitar higher up on his lap. “She’s working at Magikal Childe, you know, the witchcraft store over on Nineteenth Street. She put in this herb that’s supposed to boost creativity.”

  “Tastes like basil,” said Portia, putting down what was left of her brownie.

  “Basil that’s been shat out of a skunk,” said Graham.

  Tessa leaned over her work table, gazed at the photos she had taken for her project. The odd-tasting brownie lay forgotten on a paper plate.

  Her friends’ reactions to the revelation that Rafe was a vampire had been mixed. Clayton had leapt up from his seat at the Shabbos table, pounded Ben on the back, howling, “What’d I tell you. Ah knew it. Ah knew it.” Ben, on the other hand, paled and pushed his seat back from the table, stunned into shocked silence. Harker had slowly nodded his head up and down, firing off the opening riff to Don’t Fear the Reaper. Gracie had arched her eyebrows and tossed back her glossy bronze curls, breathlessly admitting that she actually found it kind of sexy. Graham simply shrugged and reached for another brownie.

  But Portia, decent, right-thinking Portia, had a stiff, scared look on her face, just as Tessa knew she would. Guiltily, she wondered if Portia would ever feel safe on the streets of New York City again. And David…well, David.

  He had been the last one to leave. As she was closing the door behind him, he wheeled sharply around, blocking it open. “Tessa,” he said levelly. “It’s sad, I know. And I understand your connection to him, and why you feel responsible. But Tessa, ask yourself this question. If what he says is true, this guy was a killing machine. Do you feel safe with him?”

  She frowned at her photos. The model had posed in a vintage 1940s dress Tessa had purchased at a thrift shop. In the photos, she looked believably frightened as she hung onto a squirmy toddler. It was exactly what Tessa had asked of her. Still, the picture didn’t sing; something was missing. What was it?

  “Can we turn off the fucking music, please?”

  Donna Summers was sobbing that someone had left her cake out in the rain. Tessa looked up. “Sure.”

  Harker popped the tape out of the boom box, read the label out loud. “Please Mister Please, Olivia Newton John. Could It Be Magic, Barry Manilow. Le Freak, by Chic. Where did you get this?” he said, not without awe.

&nb
sp; “Guy on Astor Place sells mix tapes for a dollar,” replied Tessa. “He looks like he needs the money.”

  “Don’t buy stuff from those guys,” said Clayton. “They just use the money to buy drugs.”

  “He said he was hungry,” Tessa said absently.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” said David.

  She was in a short black skirt, an elaborately starched white blouse, black ballet flats, black stockings that stopped somewhere around mid-thigh. She’d found the clothing folded neatly on her desk at Anastasia yesterday. The directions had been implicit.

  “Standard issue magazine-girl uniform. I came straight from work.”

  “How’s that going, anyway?” The men were passing around one of Harker’s handmade cigarettes.

  “I’ve learned lots of new ways to work the word ‘fabulous’ into a sentence.”

  “Have you met any models?” said Graham.

  “I see them around.”

  “Are they as gorgeous in real life as they are in photographs?”

  “If you find skinny teenage girls with flat chests and tiny heads gorgeous, sure.”

  “I was talking about the boys.”

  The curtain was drawn aside, admitting Raphael Sinclair. He stood within the pool of light from the reflector lamp, regarding Tessa at her work table. Where it touched her, the light turned her tawny hair into a river of gold. Rafe moved forward as if no one else was in the room, brushed his fingertips across her shoulder. Absorbed in her photographs, it took a moment before she turned her head. When she saw who it was, she smiled in a way that made the other men a little envious, even the ones who had girlfriends.

  “Mr. Sinclair, sir.” said Harker, picking out the first ten notes of Moonlight on Bleecker Street.

  “Thanks for lending me the Balthus book, Mr. Sinclair,” said Portia cautiously. She was visibly uncomfortable around him. “It’s perfect.”

  “Please, call me Rafe,” he said. A small, self-deprecating smile. “I saw it on my bookshelf and thought of you. I hope it’s helpful.”

  Clayton got to his feet. “Got something for you, Mister Sinclair,” he said. He held the curtain open for him. “If you would just come this way, sir, please.”

  With a questioning look at Tessa, Rafe left the warmth of the studio. A few minutes later, the curtain was lifted open. A stranger stood in the doorway, just another art-student-slash-musician in torn jeans and a faded Pink Floyd concert t-shirt, his hair chunky and mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed after a hard night of rocking. On his feet, a pair of scuffed Doc Martens.

  There was a collective gasp as the students recognized him. Then Harker patted the seat beside him. “Take a load off, Mister Sinclair.”

  He squeezed in between Gracie and Harker’s electric guitar. Gracie wiggled her tush, gave a sensuous laugh. Someone with a sense of humor passed him the brownies. Wisely, he declined.

  Harker appeared to be returning to a conversation begun earlier. “So. Dude. You’ve never gotten stoned and listened to Dark Side of the Moon.”

  “No.”

  “No Stones. No Clapton. No Dylan. No Doors.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I don’t know much about modern music. Though I think Mick Jagger and I were dating the same model at some point during the Summer of Love.”

  “No Beatles. No Elvis. You’re like a virgin. Christ in a barrel, I’m tingling. I’m gonna make you a rock history mix tape.” He whipped out his sketchbook, scribbled furious notes to himself.

  “Say, Mr. Sinclair, sir,” said Clayton eagerly, leaning forward. “If I might ask you, sir…I have this little bet going with Ben. Exactly how many Nazis did you kill during the war? Did you keep count?”

  Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. He might have answered, but suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, admitting Whit Turner’s square head. The students fell silent before the Chairman of the Painting Department.

  “I have to cancel our meeting tonight,” he told Graham. “Tomorrow good?” Graham nodded his assent. Now Whit regarded the students squashed together on the couch. Seeing Rafe, he frowned, as if he knew him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place the face.

  “This is my friend Udo,” Graham said offhandedly. “Visiting from Lithuania. He’s thinking about transferring here next year. He’s heard good things.”

  “Oh,” said Whit. He addressed Rafe, slowly and loudly. “Do you speak English?”

  “No,” Graham said. “We’re working on it.”

  “Well. Tell him there are going to be a lot of changes around here.” Whit said. The curtain swished closed behind him.

  The students collapsed on top of one another, helpless with suppressed laughter. Clayton had to clap his hand over Gracie’s mouth to keep her from giggling out loud and giving them all away.

  Seeing him dressed like this, legs stretched out lazily before him, lounging on the couch with her friends, brought an unexpected tightness to Tessa’s throat. He looked heartbreakingly young. She realized she was being given a glimpse of what he must have been like fifty years ago, before Sofia, before Anastasia, before the war. He noticed she was watching him, and smiled. His eyes were very fair and blue today.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” said Graham.

  “It’s Udo,” he said, taking the cigarette Harker passed to him.

  “Is the school really in trouble? Should we be worried?”

  “No business,” he mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch. “Not tonight.”

  “It’s our school, too,” said Ben. “We want to help. Is there anything we can do?”

  “You can help by doing the best work you possibly can, then going out into the world and spreading the word.”

  “Say,” said Portia. “What about a Goods and Services auction?” In response to the blank stares she received, she explained further. “My church has one every year. There’s a parishioner who is a psychiatrist, he donates a session, it’s auctioned off to the highest bidder. A parishioner who is a lawyer donates an hour. A woman who works for a television talk show donates tickets…you get the idea. Last year, I offered to paint a portrait in the style of Velasquez. It went for thousands.”

  “What about Wylie Slaughter?” said Graham. “He really likes what we’re doing here. We could ask him to donate a painting. And if he likes the school so much, maybe some of his groovy artist friends will donate something, too.”

  “Before the auction, a really great party. Like the Naked Masquerade,” Portia planned. “Only this time, everything is white…white lights, white walls, white food…like a blank canvas.”

  “The students could contribute works, too,” said Ben. “Original compositions, copies from old masters…It’s a great chance to show the world what we do here.”

  “We need a catchy name. What would we call it?”

  “Old Masters and New Masters.”

  “Still Life with Vampire.”

  “Nudes and Naked Ladies,” said Tessa.

  Rafe was sitting up, listening intently. “I like it,” he said thoughtfully. “We could do it in the spring, maybe the end of April. Sort of a bookend to the Naked Masquerade. I’ll get Giselle on it tomorrow. She loves a good party.”

  “To the Nudes and Naked Ladies Benefit and Auction,” said Harker, raising his plastic cup.

  “Udo doesn’t have any wine,” said Graham.

  Hastily, Tessa filled a glass and handed it to Rafe. They smiled at each other through the forest of arms as the others raised their voices and their glasses.

  “To art that matters.”

  Much later that evening. The studio floor was empty, the lights lowered. “Do you like me better this way?” he whispered as he unbuttoned her blouse.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back, pulling the faded black t-shirt up over his head. He was bare-chested underneath. “I kind of like the overcoat and fedora thing.”

  “Where did you get these clothes?” he said, unzipping the short leather skirt, slipping it down her legs.

  “Ram l
eft them for me. What do you think? Do I look like I belong at Anastasia?”

  She sat back against the dark wooden slats of the chair, wearing only a lacy black bra, a pair of panties, stockings.

  Rafe knelt between her knees. “Oh, yes. But I think I like you better…” He began to carefully roll one black stocking down her thigh. “…like this.”

  3

  Rafe woke with a start. Two-thirty, said the numbers on the dial. Tessa slept on beside him. He sat up in bed, trying to figure out what had awakened him, when he heard a noise on the landing outside his door. Pulling on his robe, he went to investigate.

  At the top of the stairs, he paused. The lower level was almost entirely dark, save for a soft glow from the clock in the kitchen. A tremor of fear passed through him. And then a shadowy figure darted out ahead of him on the floor below.

  The figure was the size of a small child. Gripping the banister, Rafe made his way down the stairs.

  “Who are you?” he said into the dark. “Are you lost?”

  The shadowy child was a master of camouflage; it hid behind curtains, behind furniture, going from nook to nook and room to room, hopscotching its way across the main level.

  He found the door that led to the cellar opened wide; after a moment of trepidation, he followed it down. Despite the fact that he was an actual monster, his heart knocked against his chest; he was unreasonably frightened.

  The basement was dark and lined with pipes. Suddenly, the furnace whooshed on, an evil orange glare crackling and snapping behind the grate. The dim firelight revealed the ghostly outlines of unused furniture stored along the walls, shrouded in white; it revealed the small figure, standing in the middle of the floor.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “I want to help you.”

  The small figure shifted from one foot to the other.

  From the shadows along the walls, a figure emerged. Man-sized, this time. Another materialized between the shrouded furniture. Then another. And another. And another. With every passing moment the shadowy figures multiplied. Dozens of them, then hundreds, advancing on him, their mouths gaping wide with broken, jagged teeth.