Nadir glared. Those eyes barraged Girder, searing into him. That alone was reason to decline. But Girder thought of the cold winter knocking, one foot already through his apartment door. He thought of the empty shelves, and his throbbing leg. Still unconvinced, he thought of his father’s jeers.
“I suppose a few weeks couldn’t hurt.”
“Splendid,” Rasp said. Nadir’s stare made it obvious winter had already arrived.
Nadir’s demeanor was unchanged the next day. He helped Girder bring his bags and supplies into the house, but did not speak. Instead, Rasp did the speaking from his chair parked in the doorway, out of the sun.
“Whatever you need, Mr. Schill, to make your stay pleasant, please let Nadir know.”
Girder’s room was large and faced south to maximize working daylight. A king-size bed, a small chaise-longue, a fireplace. The large window overlooked the winter garden; the deep greens vibrant, orange flowers like starbursts. Girder couldn’t imagine a better-suited workplace. As promised, there were no distractions in the room; no telephone or radio. The walls were as bare as the sitting room’s. Which Girder found odd, considering.
Rasp visited only once. Nadir wheeled him in as Girder was finishing the setup of his workspace.
“Should you feel hungry later, the kitchen is to your left at the end of the hall. It’s open to you at any time.”
“What time should I be down for dinner?”
Rasp’s dark lips curled, quivered. “Not today, I’m afraid. I’ve made other arrangements. Besides, watching me eat is not something most people would relish. Wouldn’t you agree, Nadir?” The tall assistant’s face twitched.
“Maybe next time?”
Girder was ashamed of the desperate tone to his voice. Rasp’s strange breathing sounded like a giggle.
“Perhaps.”
Amply supplied with paint, Girder faced the empty stare of the blank canvas. He sighed. The first brush stroke was the hardest. He did not plot nor plan. Instead, he dredged—pain and frustration . . . He moved his mind into his rotted leg, visualized the nerve endings sparking in the darkness, waited for it all to coalesce. He almost touched the brush to the canvas, but knew the simplest stroke locked out an infinite number of others. He preferred the vast nothingness where it was safe, warm. Protective. A single mark could not be undone. Potential hemorrhaged. He willed the images to come from beneath and feed him. He closed his eyes and waited. Waited. They would come. They always came. He simply had to have faith.
A deep familiar voice echoed in the hall outside the room, and Girder’s blood chilled. It couldn’t be. Not him. Every inch of skin constricted, trying to shrink Girder from existence. How had he been discovered? All the resolve Girder had built up wavered.
When the inevitable knock arrived, Girder’s hesitated. He did not want to face what was beyond. The knock returned, insistent, and he realized there was no escape. Never from him. Girder opened the door and found the two men he least wanted to see: the tall hawkish Nadir, triumphant, a stack of paintings under his thin arm; and the viper-faced Mr. Raymond, whose eyes were spitting above his plaster smile.
“Hello, Girder.” The voice tight, his anger barely suppressed. Or was it pleading? Mocking? Was there some plan Raymond had colluded with Nadir to implement? Girder was tired, unable to think straight. Perhaps he was wrong about everything. And yet there Mr. Raymond was, weeks after Girder had last been to the Overground. A haunting of his past betrayal made flesh. One of his many hauntings.
Nadir looked derisive. “I can see you two have a lot to discuss. Thank you for the delivery, Mr. Raymond. Mr. Schill, if you could show him out when you’re done?”
Nadir stepped back, absorbed into shadows. Girder fumbled for words as Raymond stared.
“Um . . . I suppose you’re wondering . . .”
Raymond’s hand struck out and snatched Girder’s wrist before he could escape. The gallerist squeezed tight and spoke, his voice a seething whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’d better get out of here.”
“I’m just doing—”
“I don’t care what Rasp has you doing. I don’t normally care to be involved in this sort of thing at all—life’s too short to mourn a loss—but this isn’t right. Selling to him is one thing, but this . . . this place smells like a nest of something, though I can’t say what. You should leave.”
Girder wrested his arm free.
“I have to stay,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “But it’s not for long. All I’m doing is painting a few pieces and then I’m going home. I’ll probably have more for you to hang at the Overground in a month or two.”
“You know that . . . person? That Nadir fellow? He doesn’t look at all familiar to you, does he? No, he probably wouldn’t. But I know him well, even if he doesn’t remember me. I tried to help him too once. Now look at him.”
“What are you—”
“Look at him, Girder. He’s used up. A junkie. You’ll be too. If you’re lucky.”
“I appreciate the concern, Mr. Raymond, but—but I think I can decide on my own what’s best for me. You—you aren’t my . . .”
Girder trailed off. Raymond’s eyes had fallen back into half-slits, as though he had crawled back into shed skin. His old carefree face then returned, like a well-worn accessory.
“Sure. That’s fine. If you manage to paint something else, dear, be sure to look me up. It was a pleasure working with you.” He extended his hand and they shook, then Mr. Raymond wrapped his scarf around his long throat.
“Don’t worry. I can show myself out.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something,” Girder said as Mr. Raymond walked down the hall, but the gallerist only offered back a cursory wave, not bothering to turn.
Nadir appeared a moment later, stepping into Girder’s room without invitation. Frowning dark cuffs creeping away from his wringing hands.
“Why didn’t you leave with him?”
“I know you don’t want me here, but I need the money Mr. Rasp is offering.”
Nadir’s expression was full of disgust. He shook his head.
“Everybody always needs something.” Nadir casually looked over at Girder’s easel and the blank canvas that sat on it, and his face changed.
“What is it?” Girder asked, but Nadir wouldn’t stay. He simply looked wide-eyed at Girder, then left, fleeing out the room on spindle legs. Girder closed the door behind him, then to be safe he double-checked the locks.
He could not return to work. His leg throbbed incessantly. Everything was in tatters. But why? For money? Was nearly starving a good enough excuse? He hobbled to the window and peered down at the winter garden. Night had steadily crept in, turning small bushes into shadows, the trees into silhouettes with lifeless branches bent downward in defeat. Girder sighed, finally turned away and saw the blank canvas in the dim room. He had nothing with which to fill it. He had come to the estate hoping his problems would vanish; instead, the isolation amplified them.
It was just after midnight when Girder managed to put brush to canvas. He slipped into an autonomous state, the brush becoming a conduit for his catharsis. He dug deep into the places he’d been twisted by what had been done to him, by what he in turn had done to others. Colors swirled in a tempest of pain behind his eyes. He simply tapped and bled them onto canvas. Each painting was in the end the same: a formless portrait of his father. Girder pressed until exhaustion crept into his senses. It was only then he lay, aching, on the bed. Eyes strained, dry, and swollen, he closed his lids and saw those swirling colors start to fade. But the sound did not. The quiet sound of something wet being dragged.
It was louder in the hallway. Echoes bounced around corridors barely lit by the rising sun. At the other end of the hall was a shut door, and as the bare-footed Girder approached it the noise intensified. He noticed the air was tinged with a sour metallic odor, and he stared at the door to reassure himself it wasn’t vibrating. As he reached out to tou
ch it, the sound, all sound, sputtered then stopped. And the world inverted. There was a quiet noise, then the squeak of rubber. Girder saw the beam of light at his feet broken by shadow, and when he looked up Nadir had emerged from the room and stood before him. Sound rushed back with a gasp.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, I just . . .” Girder glanced around the shoulder of the tall man and saw Rasp’s back as he sat in his chair, a dark wide canvas of indigo. Paintings surrounding him, paintings piled on the floor and against the wall. He appeared to be sweating, his pale skin greasy and rippling like gelatin in disturbance. Nadir’s dark shadow obscured the sight.
“Get out of here,” the assistant warned. Large hands pounded Girder’s chest like two hammers. Girder’s mind grappled with what it saw, but it was only after the door had closed that the sight fully developed. Nadir’s hands were slick and stained like a bruise, purplish-yellow and red. Girder wondered what had they done.
Mid-afternoon appeared before Rasp did. Girder had hidden all morning—his confusion adding streaks through the colors swirling in his mind’s eye—but eventually gnawing hunger overtook him, and he turned to the stocked kitchen. He made a turkey and swiss sandwich as quickly as he could, anxious to return to his hiding. But the warning squeal of rubber came too late. He looked over his shoulder to see the overweight sweating Rasp and the hovering Nadir in the doorway, both watching him intently. The eyes of the latter narrowed. Rasp’s voice was unusually clear.
“I apologize for Nadir’s behavior this morning. It was . . . harsh.”
“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have intruded like that.”
“No harm done,” Rasp dismissed, and shook his head. Did his pale skin vibrate too long? “How is the work coming? I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, of course. I mean, the work is going well. I think.”
“Good, good. I can’t wait to see what you have for me.” Rasp flashed his blackened gums. Girder shifted uneasily on his weak leg. He rubbed the damaged muscles, the dull sensation giving him comfort.
“I think you’ll be pleased when it’s done.”
“I’m sure I will be. I’m a man of tremendous appetites, as you can tell, and there’s little I love more than a fine piece of art. Wouldn’t you say so, Nadir?”
Nadir ignored the question.
“Did you know we had a visit yesterday from Mr. Raymond, the dealer from the Overground? Girder and he had a good talk.”
“Oh, did they? What did Mr. Raymond have to say to you, my boy? Did he try and steal your talent back from me?”
Discomfited, Girder stumbled.
“No, not really. He seemed fine.”
“You can never tell with a snake like that one,” Rasp chortled, round head bobbing into folds of deep indigo. “He’s always trying to slide in where he isn’t wanted, isn’t he, Nadir?”
Rasp’s smile did not make it to the eyes. He wore a pair of gloves that obscured stained flesh.
Rasp continued. “Ah, well. It looks as though we’re disturbing you. I merely wanted to let you know that as I feel a smidgen under the weather I may not be able to visit you as often as I’d wished to track your progress. Rest assured, though, Nadir will be here to help you with whatever you may require. I expect only the best from you, Mr. Schill. You are certainly capable of it.” He swallowed, small lumps travelling down his throat like swallowed eggs. “Nadir, please take me away so our guest might continue working.”
Rasp was wheeled into the dark, the remaining funk that surrounded him dissipating slowly. Girder took the sandwich he’d been making and threw it away. He was no longer hungry.
Time passed. Girder spent the time sequestered, leaving the room rarely. He lived inside a world of color, dreaming it, breathing it, at times unsure what was real. The only interruption was Nadir’s begrudging apologies for Rasp. “He doesn’t feel well.” And, “It’s a side-effect of his incapacitation.” It didn’t concern Girder. Little of the material world did. As long as supplies were by his door each morning, his fever dream would not subside. Should strange wet noises have persisted beyond his door, he was too busy or too tired to notice.
Never had he worked so quickly, with so much complexity. If Rasp wanted emotion, he would get it. Every sting felt, every hurt suffered, raw materials as essential as paint. Girder’s father’s laugh, the pain from his ruined leg, the glare of Nadir, the doubt of Raymond, all formed a cultured mosaic he alone could see. His scoured soul, his scars mapped in brushstrokes. Cramped fingers became his ultimate medium—the pain bringing tears to his color-blinded eyes.
And two weeks later and twenty pounds lighter, in a spent daze he took in the finished work and smiled.
The smile remained as he sat in the kitchen. Coffee brewed inside while outside the snowstorm did the same. A reticent howl echoed through the estate. Girder felt serene yet looked worse—thickly bearded, eyes bloodshot and dark—but the smile was genuine. For the first in some time, he was at peace. His happiness was the only reason that explained Nadir’s noiseless appearance in the kitchen’s doorway.
“The painting is done?”
Girder beamed. Nodded.
“Then Mr. Rasp will be pleased.”
But once Nadir slipped away to tell Rasp, the realization finally penetrated the fog of denial. Rasp wanted it all, wanted every ounce of Girder, and the artist had been more than willing to dredge it up. But now that the time had come to hand it over—to hand everything over . . .
In truth, Girder was spent; there was not another opus in him. He had been burned clean of anger and resentment, welling colors drained from his soul. All of it, all his father’s monstrosity, was contained within the painting, all the suffering trapped in the strokes of the brush. The painting hummed with power, and Girder did not want to relinquish it. Not to anyone, even Rasp. Yet that was who had housed him, who had fed him. . . . He owed Rasp a great deal, but the price was too high.
An hour later, Nadir delivered Rasp to Girder’s room. The porcine man had changed somehow. Both smaller and larger at once. Girder’s yellow face alone was gaunt, though it lit when in the presence of the painting. “Absolutely marvelous,” Rasp said. “Nadir told me you were done, but I couldn’t have expected this.” Lips twitched, dark tongue passed over them nervously. “This is absolutely a masterpiece, Mr. Schill. A venerable masterpiece.”
Even Nadir seemed impressed; upon seeing it his face registered genuine, if fleeting, emotion. Perhaps awe? The reaction was both reassuring and disappointing.
“I don’t think I could have done it without your hospitality Mr. Rasp. You’re generosity may have literally saved me.”
“Think nothing of it. Seeing the results just proves I made the right decision.” A glance at Nadir; the servant’s eyes were elsewhere. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Schill. I consider this whole endeavor money well spent.”
Girder silently cursed. Rasp clearly wanted the painting. Which meant Girder had to gather some nerve.
“Um . . . about that, Mr. Rasp—”
Rasp’s head ceased bobbing.
“Now, now. We had a deal, did we not?”
“It’s just that—”
“Did I not keep up my end of the bargain, Mr. Girder? I’ve provided for you all that you’ve asked, but I didn’t do so for your charity.”
“Perhaps I could paint you another one? Perhaps something else?”
“No, Mr. Schill. I think the time for that has passed. I must insist. I couldn’t possibly let this specific painting escape me.”
Girder stammered. Rasp’s words cut him short.
“Nadir, come.” Rasp whispered into his servant’s ear. The tall man smirked, nodded, then left the room. Rasp resumed speaking, albeit in a quieter voice.
“Mr. Schill. I don’t appreciate the situation you’ve placed me in, but I am a fair and reasonable man. I will give you double your normal rate—the rate which Mr. Raymond would charge me—for this painting. I do
so, you understand, under duress, and only because I simply cannot wait to see if what you produce next is suitable. I suspect this painting will satiate me for some time—it’s so rich, so deep with power. But I think this may be the last time you and I can do business this way. I recommend that after we are done here you make arrangements to return immediately to your home.”
Nadir reappeared before Girder could find words to reply. He showed Rasp a checkbook but did not take his eyes from Girder.
“I want you to give him double, Nadir. Plus the stipend I promised. Then I want you to help him load his belongings into his car. He won’t be staying with us any longer.”
“But Mr. Rasp . . .” Girder couldn’t believe the sound of his own warbling voice—everything was falling to pieces. “The snowstorm . . . it’s not safe.”
Mr. Rasp considered this for a cold moment.
“Very well, Mr. Schill. You may stay an extra night. But tomorrow you must go. And, in the future, you ought to allow Mr. Raymond alone to handle your sales to any prospective buyers.”
Girder sat devastated on the bed of his borrowed room. Outside the window was the furious chaos of snow, and despite the fireplace’s radiating heat he remained both cold and empty. How had things devolved so quickly? His father’s voice echoed, reminding him that he destroyed everything good. Girder didn’t have to believe it to know it was true.
He washed face in the small en suite sink, then stared in the mirror at his sagging reflection. Girder was a fool. He had risked everything on a fantasy and a dream, neither of which had come true. There was so much road left ahead, and what did he do? He drove into the desert.
Without Mr. Rasp’s aid, what would become of Girder? Would he fade to nothing? Upset, the artist’s fingers twitched, craving the security of the brush, the expression of its bristles. But behind closed eyelids nothing waited. No points, no pricks, no colors shifting, swirling, dancing. Even clenched fists rubbing orbital bone made no difference. The visions did not return. He opened his eyes, watched the periphery of his vision crackle with energy as his sight settled. His father’s greatest scar had finally faded, and Girder knelt down on his working knee, terrified of what that might mean.
Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales Page 22
