The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque

by Jeffrey Ford

  “Piambo,” she said, and started laughing. It was that same type of mocking jollity I had heard from Mrs. Charbuque earlier.

  “I am hilarious today,” I said, somewhat piqued.

  “Forgive me. I hate to disillusion you, but if your Mr. Watkin is blind, I’m Evelyn Nesbit.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “Please, Piambo, that old fellow is the worst actor I’ve ever seen. By comparison he makes Derim Lourde seem worthy of playing Hamlet.”

  “But did you see his eyes? Deathly white, devoid of any color whatsoever.”

  “Yes, yes, a stage trick. Thin lenses made of glass, cast in a milky white with pinprick holes in them to allow the actor a limited range of vision. I first saw them used five years ago in a production of The Golem. They are a favorite of directors of plays whose theme is supernatural. Fitted up under the lid, they are uncomfortable but effective in giving that otherworldly look.”

  I was about to speak but found I had nothing to say.

  “The man’s conception of being blind is merely barging here and there giving things a slight tap with his cane. Did you think he had memorized the entire city and accounted for where each pedestrian would be at any given moment, not to mention autos and streetcars and horses when crossing from one side to the other? Occasionally he will remember he is supposed to be blind and cock his head suddenly this way or that as if attempting to listen to the dark world around him. A pathetic, melodramatic performance, for sure.”

  “My God,” I said. “I was so convinced. It was those eyes. I’m paralyzed when something is amiss with the eyes.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” said Samantha. “Everyone on the street believed his performance as well, giving him a wide berth.”

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “I passed close enough to touch him and then turned and followed him at a distance. He went into a small corner market and bought a rather expensive little container of nutmeg. Then he went down the street to a florist. Here is where I made my own mistake, though. I’m sure he noticed me when he left the market, and when I followed him to the florist, he turned, and I saw him look directly out at me through the window. I got nervous then and scurried back to Mrs. Charbuque’s. It had been in my mind all along that he might have been a decoy and that perhaps she would slip out while I was following him. I stayed in the vicinity of the house until a little before five, but he did not return.”

  “You’re a wonder,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough. But no more of this. I have a feeling Watkin can be dangerous, and I now suspect, with what you have discovered, that it was him at the theater last night. Why, though, I have no idea.”

  When we arrived at my house, I had Samantha stand on the steps while I searched for a possible intruder. The darkness I passed through on the way to the light switch in the parlor was ominous, and then what a relief to be able to see. The modern age had its advantages, to be sure. I slid along the wall on the way to the bedroom and then leaped around the corner to surprise any would-be assailant. The room was empty, as was the closet.

  By the time I reached the huge shadowed expanse of the studio, my heart was pounding. Nothing is worse than feeling like prey in your own home. I switched on the light and gasped slightly. There was no stranger there to confront me, but there was something strange. Sitting on the table that held my painting equipment was an enormous vase of flowers. The sudden vivid colors were what drew a reaction from me. A large faux Chinese vase held an array of blossoms—red carnations, yellow roses, acanthus, ivy, and lavender. It was an odd assortment—either hastily chosen or fraught with meaning, I could not tell. Leaning against the container was a small violet-colored envelope. As I approached, I was swamped by the lovely aroma of the arrangement.

  I lifted the envelope and held it tentatively for a moment, recalling the feel of the straight razor against my throat. Then I tore up the flap to find a card, whose front was blank. Opening it released a few flakes of dried snow, which fell slowly to the floor. On the inner fold was written:

  Dearest Piambo,

  Please forgive my foolish joke. I will be waiting for you tomorrow.

  Love,

  Luciere

  Of course, my attention was drawn directly to the word “Love,” for this seemed to me to be the most bizarre development of the entire ridiculous pageant that had been my dealings with Mrs. Charbuque. I sensed a genuine contrition and deep emotion from the few words that made up the message, and was contemplating this in relation to everything else when I heard something behind me. I spun around to find Samantha standing there holding her coat and pillows and soiled kerchief. I don’t know why, but I blushed as if she had caught me at something dishonest or illicit.

  As I have said, it was difficult for me to hide anything from Samantha. She gave me a cynical smile and said, “A secret admirer?”

  I wanted to slip the card into my pocket unnoticed, but it was too late for that. Instead I tried to convince her that my embarrassment was really befuddlement at this odd turn of affairs.

  “A message of apology from Mrs. Charbuque,” I said, and threw the open card on the table. “First she abuses me, and then she sends me flowers. Does she take me for a fool? I tell you, I’m beginning to despise this woman.”

  “No doubt,” Samantha said, and then turned and left the room.

  Later we made love, but through it all, I felt as if someone was watching me. I half expected Watkin to pop his head out from beneath the bed and critique my performance with the words “Strictly nutmeg and mold, Mr. Piambo.” The entire session was perfunctory and somewhat unsatisfactory for both of us. We lay side by side afterward, and I told Samantha about the monkey arm. She did not share my now trumped-up outrage, reacting rather blankly to the whole story.

  When she fell asleep, I crept out of bed and returned to the studio. There I reread the card several times and sat staring at the flowers while smoking a cigarette. I imagined the room with the high ceilings, the two windows, and the screen, darkened as it would be at that late hour, but this time I was behind the sacred boundary, looking at Mrs. Charbuque sitting naked, bathed in a slanting beam of moonlight. She turned and saw me and, in that soft lunar glow, held out her arms toward me. I clearly saw her face, and she was beautiful.

  I blinked and looked back at the flowers, but when I concentrated again on the image in my imagination, it was the same. Now she was motioning for me to come to her. I got up and ran across the room to fetch charcoal and paper. Returning to my seat, I closed my eyes just as she stood to embrace me. Then the pencil touched the paper, and I drew without thinking.

  NOTHING IS SAFE

  WHEN I awoke the next morning Samantha was gone. I vaguely remembered her having told me that she had an audition at the Garden Theatre for a part that would follow her present one in A Brief Engagement. Neither of us was a particularly early riser, and we maintained an unspoken pact not to wake the other unless there was a verifiable need.

  I closed my eyes, deciding to sleep for a little while longer. No sooner were my lids shut, though, than I remembered the reason for my late hours. I saw in my mind the sketch I had made while sitting before the vase of flowers on the paint table, and immediately rolled out of bed. As I got into my robe and slippers, I clearly remembered the drawing, and my excitement over it was rekindled. The promise of seeing it again sent me rushing through the house to the studio.

  I had finally executed an actual picture of Mrs. Charbuque, and if I do say so myself, it was a wonderful job. Granted, it was still merely a sketch, but I had rendered enough detail in the face and form of the body so that the sight of it triggered in my mind again that clear vision of her standing naked in the moonlight behind the screen. Yes, even the specific features of the eyes and hair had revealed themselves clearly to me. This then would be my touch-stone. One glance at it, and my subject would be standing before my mind’s eye, willing to pose for as long as I required. I felt a warm glow emanate from my solar ple
xus, a certain giddiness invade my bloodstream, and I truly believed that I had captured precisely what she looked like. Mrs. Charbuque would have her painting, and I would succeed at the impossible.

  Staring at the sketch, holding that vision of her in my mind, I also felt a trace of sexual longing for this woman I had created. “Could anything be more narcissistic?” I wondered, but I could not deny my feelings. To do so, I feared, would transport me back to the other side of the screen. At that moment, I looked around for the violet card from my patron. It lay on the table between the sketch and the vase of flowers. As I reached for it, I noticed that its envelope lay next to it and that now there was writing upon that as well.

  Dear Piambo,

  I will meet you this evening at the Academy of Design.

  Love,

  Samantha

  She had copied Mrs. Charbuque’s handwriting and the format of her note precisely. Obviously this was meant as a joke, but there are jokes and there are jokes. The placement of the envelope directly next to the card troubled me somewhat. I had been obsessing over the project of late, there was no doubt of that, but it was work and a monumental turning point in my career. More than likely it was evident to Samantha that my attention was always keenly focused on it, although in conversation during our private moments I might pretend otherwise. Surely she was not jealous, or was she? Samantha, in full daylight, could at times be more mysterious than Mrs. Charbuque in hiding. Perhaps she had meant to remind me of this very fact, placing her note next to the other to claim a kind of equality. I shook my head, not willing to be distracted from the task at hand. I instead turned my attention back to the sketch and the unique pleasure of strategizing how I would convert it into a full-fledged portrait.

  I spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon preparing a canvas and jotting down notes concerning color, placement of the figure, props if any, and so on, so that upon my return that evening I could begin. One decision I made that excited me was the determination to show Mrs. Charbuque as I had conceived of her—naked, a solitary figure adrift in a sea of deep shadow. She would be the light source of the painting.

  I remembered Sabott telling me how the old Dutch masters had manufactured their own pigments because they knew that certain substances, ground to certain textures, would refract the light at specific angles. They were aware that configurations of these angles of refraction would focus light in precise areas of the composition and make it glow, seemingly of its own accord. I wished I had paid more attention to Sabott’s lectures on pigment and light. When I was younger, I thought using anything other than ready-made paint was hopelessly primitive, the drudgery of mortar and pestle nothing more than a pointless inhibitor of my artistic muse. That was before I came to realize that a good sable brush was worth ten yards of emotive genius and that painting was a two-headed beast—part craft and part inspiration. What I would have given to have listened more closely, for it was the magical effect of light I now hoped to achieve.

  At one o’clock I made my preparations for the journey uptown. Formal attire was necessary, as I would go directly to the opening at the academy from the day’s meeting. I was full of energy and goodwill, now that the project was so clearly defined. I put on my coat and hat, picked up my sketchbook, and made for the front door. As I turned the knob I was reminded that someone had entered my house without my knowledge twice in the past two days. Nothing was safe, I realized.

  Returning to the studio, I carefully rolled up the sketch. Then I made a tour of the rooms, searching for a place to stow it where an intruder would never think to look. I finally settled on stuffing it into the arm of a dinner jacket that hung at the back of my bedroom closet. This was not completely satisfactory, but on the other hand no one but Samantha and I knew of the drawing’s existence.

  It was a beautiful day, warmer than those of late, and I took the opportunity to let my ideas percolate, choosing to walk a bit before boarding an uptown streetcar. There is nothing like that steady rhythmic motion, the fresh air, and open space to fan the creative spark into a genuine blaze. The sidewalks were crowded, and I made a game of trying to walk as many blocks as I could without coming to a full stop, dodging passersby here and there, looking ahead to anticipate tight gaps between pedestrians, and slipping through at the last second. All the while I was contemplating whether or not to depict Mrs. Charbuque from the waist or from the knees. Considering the question, I found that either prospect thrilled me.

  At the corner of Park Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street, the game was up. A crowd of nearly two dozen people had gathered there, waiting for three automobiles and twice as many carriages to pass before they could cross uptown. I joined the group and patiently waited for the vehicles to move on. When the street was finally clear and the horde began to cross, my attention was drawn to the left by the blare of an auto horn. A mere second later, from the right, I could swear I heard a female voice whisper, “Piambo, I love you.”

  I turned my head quickly, but no one was there. Either my ears had played a trick on me, or the speaker had moved on ahead with the surging crowd. I hurried across to catch up. The group seemed to be composed completely of women: hats and hairdos, parasols and handbags. Before I could reach them and see their faces, they had gained the opposite sidewalk and scattered, some entering shops and the rest going east or west or continuing north. The incident unnerved me for two reasons. The first was that I was very possibly deluding myself, which, given recent events, would not be so unlikely. The second was that the voice I heard, although its message was very much the opposite, carried the same quiet tone and inflection as that of Mrs. Reed’s wish for me.

  I boarded a streetcar at Twenty-ninth Street and arrived at Mrs. Charbuque’s house with a good ten minutes to spare before the appointment. Watkin answered the door in his usual slightly irritated, perfunctory manner, but with what Samantha had told me, I saw him in a completely new light. I now had the courage to stare into those white eyes and found in them an unnatural quality of reflection. Upon close inspection, I could see they were not real. Beyond that, though, they were so pathetically fake that I nearly laughed out loud at my naïveté. In order to elicit a performance, I asked him if he had seen the lead story in the morning newspapers. “Surely you are jesting, Mr. Piambo,” he said, and his gestures quickly corroborated everything Samantha had said about his erratic manner. Either his movements were those of a normally sighted person, or they involved a melodramatic positioning of the head, like a bird listening to the call of its mate.

  Watkin escorted me to the antechamber and then went to check on the readiness of Mrs. Charbuque. In those short minutes I conceived of a plan to disturb Mr. Watkin. Opening my sketchbook, I turned it horizontally on my lap. I took out my pencil and wrote in large dark letters WATKIN IS AN ASS! Admittedly juvenile, but I wanted something that might get a rise out of him.

  When he returned, I was waiting for him, standing with the book open in front of me. He stopped short at the entrance to the small room, and I saw a blush suffuse his forehead and cheeks. “This way,” he said curtly, but he did not append the phrase “Mr. Piambo” to it as he usually did. I followed him, trying to consider the purpose of Watkin’s threadbare disguise. As we passed through the formal dining room, he pointed to his left and said, “We’ve acquired a new piece.” He did not stop to give me time to study it, but I turned my head quickly enough to see, framed and hung upon the wall, the daguerreotype from the warehouse. While ushering me into the room with the screen, his visage sported a wide, ugly grin.

  THE RED HERRING

  SHALL I mark your presence here today as an acceptance of my apology, Piambo?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you with the monkey arm, but my sense of humor has grown strange from my self-imposed isolation. I expect my words and schemes to be taken in a certain way, but I am often disappointed with the results. After all these years, I remain unable to calculate how the presence of
the screen will alter my intentions.”

  “I understand,” I said. As I listened to her words, I conjured the image of the sketch in my mind. The more she spoke, the more the minute details began to fill themselves in—the curve of her ear, the insignificant creases at the corners of her mouth, the length of her neck.

  “We used the monkey arm in the act as what my father called a red herring, something to both confuse the audience and delight their sense of wonder. I don’t know if you noticed, but the thumb has a spring inserted in it so that it closes tightly against the palm. This feature had been added before we purchased it. What its original use was God only knows, but for our purposes it acted as an eccentric clasp to secure the paper leaves people wrote their questions on. By thrusting out the fake arm to accept the leaves from my father, I could remain completely hidden.”

  “Reaction to it must have been interesting,” I said.

  “Very. It led people to believe that I was some kind of monstrous anomaly cursed with the attributes of an ape yet blessed with divine knowledge,” she said.

  “My mentor, M. Sabott, used to say, ‘The public loves a neat package of contradictions,’” I said, entertaining the notion that perhaps the arm had been a red herring for me as well and that she really was some bizarre creature. Having come too far to allow myself to be plunged back into the pit of doubt, I banished the thought as quickly as it had arisen, and focused again on my memory of the sketch.

  “That first time, at Ossiak’s dinner party, was exciting for me. I was just eleven years old, and actually quite timid, but the screen gave me an uncharacteristic courage. I still remember the first question asked of me. My father read it aloud to the audience. ‘Will it happen?’ he said, and I held out the monkey arm. With an elegant flourish, he clamped the green leaf under its thumb. Upon retrieving it, I read it again to myself and then closed my eyes to concentrate on listening for the voices of the Twins. As I have told you, I was a fervent believer, so there was no apprehension. They came to me immediately, their whispers turning to images in my mind.