The Corpse with the Garnet Face

by Cathy Ace

  I’d missed my chance to ask Hannah’s advice about disposing of it, so I plopped it back onto the floor and picked up the last of Hannah’s pieces. It was pretty lightweight, largely because it had no frame, save the wooden box-like structure it shared with all the others of its type. I managed to turn it at an angle so it didn’t hit the walls or trap my fingers as I made my way downstairs—extremely carefully. It was a relief to see the daylight as Hannah held open both front doors, allowing me to leave Jonas’s and enter hers.

  “Just put them over there,” she announced airily, indicating the wall with the record collection. “I’ll place them later. Don’t suppose you’d fancy knocking in a few nails for me, would you, young man?” she asked Bud playfully.

  Bud bowed graciously. “I’d be happy to, Hannah. I can’t promise when, because Cait and I are going to take some time for ourselves today. We’re going to walk the city, take in the sights, and even visit a gallery. I know we’re both looking forward to a long, leisurely lunch. Can you suggest anywhere?”

  “Somewhere good for lunch? In Amsterdam? On a Sunday? What do you want to eat? What do you want to see when you’re eating? There’s a lot of tourist places, and some better local places.”

  “Does the brown café you used to own do lunches?” I asked.

  Hannah beamed. “Good bread, good cheese, good beers, good anyt’ing you want to eat or drink, in fact. It’s plain and simple, though it’s not got what most people would call a view, so you’d sit inside if you know what’s good for you. You should go. It’ll be grand. I’ll write down all the details, and if you’ve got a map I’ll put an x on it for you. I’ll even phone them up and tell them to keep you a table.”

  I felt a bit embarrassed, and realized I’d walked Bud into a plan he might not have wanted to follow through. “No need to do that, Hannah, but I’ll take the details. If we’re close by, we’ll check it out.”

  “If you’re going to cover the Museumplein, you’ll be close enough,” replied Hannah.

  Armed with a map, with an afternoon ahead of us to do as we pleased, Bud and I headed off into the now-busy streets to join the throngs of tourists. I felt a lightness in my step, and enjoyed the touch of the sun on my skin. I was already excited about visiting the Van Gogh Museum, which we’d agreed over our second cup of coffee that morning was what we’d do. I was finally going to be able to gaze at real Van Goghs rather than Jonas’s interpretations.

  Pictures in a Museum

  I’M NOT AT ALL KEEN on the idea of a bucket list. It smacks of mortality and tends to lead people to do things with a different attitude than if they’d just planned a nice holiday. But I get it, psychologically speaking. It’s like knowing what you’d do if you won the lottery, or stopping in front of the windows that have photos of homes you could never afford…unless you’d won the lottery. It’s all about dreams. We humans like to dream about “what ifs.” In many ways it’s healthy, in that we each of us need, and indeed have, an inner life. But sometimes, when people are doing what they’ve dreamed of doing for a long time, it can turn them into selfish little monsters, as Bud and I discovered in the line as we shuffled our way toward the ticket desk at the Van Gogh Museum. It was busy, with more people wanting to enter than could be rapidly accommodated by the ticket sellers. They were doing the best they could, but that didn’t stop people from moaning, annoyingly loudly, about how long the process was taking, and that they had less than two hours to “do” the whole place.

  As we stood there I thought we should have booked ahead, online, but I didn’t want to say anything, because we hadn’t really known when we’d be able to get there, so I kept my mouth shut and shuffled along with everyone else.

  I picked up, from snippets of excited conversations taking place about us, that there was some talk about a new Van Gogh having been discovered by the museum. It made me wonder about French barns and back rooms of bars, where a penniless artist might have exchanged what would now be seen as a masterpiece for a meal or a night on a straw bed during his wanderings. I wondered how Vincent, the man, would have felt about seeing his work displayed in such a fine place, and treated with such reverence. Art—it’s not a field where just beauty is in the eye of the beholder; that’s where the value lies, too.

  Soon we were able to leave the lined-up throng to join the milling-about throng and stand, in awe, in front of the work of the man who probably produced more world-famous pieces of art in a few short years than most artists had done, or ever would do, in a lifetime. I’d been to the museum before it had been updated and modernized, and I liked the way the place had changed. It had been starkly white—almost sterile—on my last visit; now colors saturated the walls, and they’d made some laudably sympathetic choices. I liked the feeling of the place, and was glad the climate controls made the building cool and not at all humid. I wished the hordes away in my mind’s eye, and allowed myself to sink into the art. Bud and I didn’t talk much, and we managed—with a fair amount of patience and head-bobbing—to see everything.

  A couple of hours later, with feet so sore I almost wished they’d drop off, we visited the little shop with a plan to buy a few prints for our walls back home. We weren’t alone, and it only took a few minutes for us both to decide we needed to leave the chaos. Before we tried to head out, I caught a chunk of conversation between two of the women behind the cash registers; they were nattering about the news stories, which we’d missed, from that morning, and were gushing about the idea that there really was a new Van Gogh piece, and it had found its way to the gallery. They discussed how the resident experts had arrived at the place even before they had that morning—on a Sunday—and had all pored over the newly discovered piece. It seemed they were preparing for some tests to be carried out, but were arranging a press conference for that very evening, with a view to making a big announcement. It lifted my spirits to know that even people who worked at the place every day still loved, admired, and were excited by the man’s work.

  Bud had overheard the women gossiping too and commented, “So they reckon they’ve found an undiscovered one of his paintings? How can that happen?”

  “It can do, especially with an artist who was as much of a wanderer as Van Gogh. They’ve had a piece here for a couple of years that was bought as a real one, then declared fake by this very museum back in the early nineties, but a couple of years ago they decided they’d take another look at it. They haven’t pronounced yet, so I am guessing they must be very certain of this one if they’re going to appear on TV to talk about it. Unless they’re just going to say they’ll think about this one before they say yea or nay.”

  “That’s probably better than constantly changing their minds.”

  “Technology changes. Different experts have different opinions.”

  “Smoke and mirrors, and hubris, if you ask me,” said Bud with finality.

  Outside we discovered the air wasn’t as fresh as it had been in the museum. Indeed, the hazy cloud cover was making the atmosphere heavy, so we decided we’d head straight to Hannah’s old café for some much-needed refreshment. The walk across the open green space of the Museumplein was a good way to stretch our legs, and it was fun to cross the canal bridge, enjoy the slightly cooler air that came up from the water, then head down a little street toward the unknown. The Marie Café was exactly where Hannah had said it would be, although we might have missed it if we hadn’t been looking for it; for all intents and purposes it was a narrow-fronted house. Only a small sign—and the bustle of people around it—signified anything out of the ordinary. Inside, it was like another world.

  Dark wood covered the walls, floors, and beamed ceiling, where the wood was etched with deep carvings. So many bodies were packed into a small space that it was difficult to move, and there were little tables around the outer edges, allowing for folks to stand in the rest of the space. It was a bit of a zoo, and I wondered about the choice we’d ma
de. I was already imagining the freshness of a cold beer sliding down my throat, so we wriggled our way to the bar, which sported a forest of beer taps. I grabbed a beer list and was dazzled; there were over 150 to choose from, ranging from the pretty standard Amstel, Hoegaarden, and Heineken, to wonderful brands like Kwak and Brugse Zot. It seemed they specialized in Dutch and Belgian brews. I wasn’t up to making a difficult choice, so I shouted out, “Two Hoegaarden whites,” at the nearest barman.

  I was taken aback when he said, “Are you Bud and Cait?” We nodded. He jerked his head toward a narrow staircase. “Go up, there’s a table for you. Order up there,” then he turned his attention to a tall young woman with the hair and profile of an Afghan Hound.

  Bud and I struggled through the sea of warm bodies to the stairs, then up them. “If this place was built in 1643 as it says outside, it seems the Dutch have always preferred their staircases like this—narrow and steep,” said Bud once we’d reached the top.

  The babble of the downstairs bar reached us a little, but we found ourselves in an oasis—albeit a brown one. About two-thirds the size of the lower floor, this upper level was full of tables, with no standing room. A young girl came from behind the bar to greet us and showed us to the only empty table in the place. Curious looks followed our progress. I wondered how privileged we were, and suspected it was a rarity for two obvious tourists to be seated where we were, which was by far the best table in the place, at a window, in the quietest corner.

  I ordered our beers again, and Bud and I finally settled. It was a treat. Surrounded by history, our heads full of art, we were about to have a lovely lunch in a unique setting.

  Our chatter was all about what we’d seen at the museum, and our surroundings. Bud chose a steak with fries, while I opted for a quiche that had the most tender pastry I’d ever tasted and a filling of smoked ham, several cheeses, and light, moist, mousse-like egg. The fries that accompanied it were perfect—thin, crisp, fluffy, and served with mayonnaise. Bud almost inhaled his thinly sliced steak, with perfect cross-hatched grill-marks, and happily dunked his fries in the mayonnaise like a local. The beer slipped down, and soon we began to relax our shoulders, and even laugh. It was as though everything we’d experienced since our arrival concerning Jonas was fading into the background, and we were able to be just us, with no mysteries to solve, no family death to come to terms with, and no possibility of police intervention in anything we were doing.

  It didn’t last, of course. We’d both finished our food and were just contemplating trying a third different beer each, when Bud’s phone rang, and we were snapped back to reality.

  My heart sank as his face clouded. He didn’t say much, which meant it wasn’t good news. My smiling, carefree husband had disappeared by the time he put his phone away, and grim-faced Bud, the retired law enforcer, was looking at me.

  “Go on then, tell me,” I said.

  “Willem Weenix’s shop was broken into in the early hours of this morning. His daughter called the cops when she heard the disturbance below her bedroom. They got there pretty quickly, and, although some damage was done, only a cash box was taken. The event led to a medical emergency for Willem, and he was rushed to the hospital. He died before dawn. Heart. Too much for him on top of the stroke he’d had. My contact was informed because of the digging he’d been doing into Willem. Word’s come down through him that the daughter wants to see us. Her father told her something before he died that he wanted us to know. My guy says there’s going to be a big get-together at Willem’s place tomorrow. Sounds like a gathering of what’s left of the Group of Seven. We’re invited. He’d like to be invited too.”

  I reached across the table and took Bud’s hands in mine. “That’s sad. I liked the twinkle in Willem’s eyes.”

  “It’s a great shame, certainly,” replied Bud gloomily, “but there’s more.”

  “Go on.”

  “His daughter told the people who answered her emergency call she thought someone had come to kill her father. My guy said the report was that she was terrified when she phoned and was screaming ‘They’ve come to kill my father because of the paintings.’ He’s passing this on to me because he’s curious—deeply curious—about exactly how what we’re up to might be linked to a break-in that led, albeit indirectly, to a death. I think we should have a sit-down with him this evening, and take him through everything.”

  I leaned in. “What’s his real name? Your secret squirrel contact, ‘John.’”

  “John Silver. And before you ask, yes, he’s really quite tall. So no jokes. He’s heard them all before.”

  I grinned. “John Silver? And he’s tall? Oh, come off it.”

  “I kid you not.”

  “Okay then, ‘Long’ John Silver it is. Where will we meet him, and when?”

  “Our hotel, 7:00 PM.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s gone three now—we should head back. I could do with freshening up, and I wouldn’t mind a bit of quiet time to do some thinking about all this—before we do the talking. You okay with that?”

  Bud smiled warmly. “Let me settle up, and we’ll make a move. It’ll take a while to walk back in any case.” He waved his arm toward the girl behind the bar who shot over to us. “Could we have the check, please?”

  “No.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There is no check. You were here as Hannah’s friends, so you are here as our guests. It has been our pleasure.”

  Bud and I blustered a bit, but there was no arguing with her, so we left as graciously as we could, leaving a good tip behind us, and banking some wonderful memories.

  Dream Time: A Study in Silence

  BY THE TIME WE GOT back to the hotel the heat was like a rubbery wet blanket that we couldn’t throw off. My head was beginning to throb—a sure sign of a thunderstorm approaching—and all I wanted to do was have a cool shower. Bud and I took turns using the bathroom, and we both ended up sitting on the bed wearing waffled white robes, with our feet up, and the air conditioning on full blast.

  “There’s something we’re missing, Cait,” said Bud. “I know we’ve uncovered a reason for the Group forming and having to stick together, but there’s more. I know it, you know it, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Yes. I know I’ve learned things I can’t put together the right way. There’s something on the edge of my consciousness, but I can’t grasp it. What I’d like to do is use my wakeful dreaming technique. I think it could help. Can you bear with me while I do that—you know it can take me quite some time.”

  Bud sat up and said, “Of course I can put up with it—all you do is sit there, or lie there, completely silent, and think. It’s hardly much for me to put up with. Do you think it might help?”

  “I really do. I need to allow everything I’ve experienced since we got here to swirl about in my mind, then settle into its own patterns. I need to not think about it—so I might look like I’m thinking about it, but wakeful dreaming is almost anti-thinking. It’s the process of allowing perceptions to tell me their own story without my interpreting anything.”

  Bud shook his head. “I still don’t get it. I don’t get how not thinking about something helps.”

  “It’s like when you can’t remember someone’s name when you meet them, then it comes back to you later when you’re not thinking about it. Our brains work in strange ways, Bud, and I know you know that.”

  “Yours does,” mugged Bud.

  “Thank you. I’ll remind you of that after I’ve given this all some non-thought and have new, fresh insights. Come on, move over and give me some room.”

  Bud wriggled away a little and I settled my body into a comfy position, then closed my eyes and began to conjure nothingness.

  I hear laughing—loud belly laughs. I look up and see a figure that is both Hannah and Willem all at once. Her body, his face, then
her face and his body, then her face then the body of The Laughing Cavalier—but this is a real body, and it’s shaking with mirth. Its arm points at me as it covers its face with its other hand, then it pulls off its face, and Jonas is grinning at me. I look away. Jonas/Hannah/Willem is pointing to something behind me. I turn to see Hannah running away, her long brown hair blowing in the wind. She twirls as she runs, joyfully dragging her hands along the tops of the swaying ears of corn that wave about her. She is young and old; she is beautiful, but crying that she is ugly. I hear the Beatles singing “Eleanor Rigby.” She melts to become an extremely ugly baby who offers me a plate of cookies and says, “They’re special” in a deep voice that turns into a howl of agony. The baby drops the plate, runs away from me, and bounces down a ladder-like flight of stairs that is suddenly gaping below us. The baby rolls, unharmed, and starts to giggle. “You’ll never catch me,” it calls in a Swedish accent. It lands on a pile of white, waxy corpses. They are dripping with water and weeds. The baby is gone. The bodies are gone, but I know they were Jonas, Willem, Charlie, Dirk, and the young soldier—a mass of limbs, but no faces.

  I look up, because the gaping hole is still there and I don’t like how it makes me feel. Above me, sitting in a chariot pulled by flying peacocks, is Greta van Burken. She’s waving a giant hat pin that transforms into a giant paintbrush and is shouting to the birds to fly higher, fly faster, because she is late for an appointment. Suddenly a figure swoops down; it’s Jonas, his face burning with a purple flame, his eyes glowing like coals. He pulls Greta out of her chariot and takes her seat. She plummets into the darkness below me. He takes her paintbrush and touches the peacocks with it. They transform into pigs, and start snuffling their noses in the ground next to me, snorting and smelling of the barnyard.